In which Wy loses her temper.

“You suicidal son of a bitch!” Wy said, eyes blazing.  “That is the last time you go up in a plane with me, I don’t care how much the frigging state is paying!  You could have been hurt!  You could have been killed!”  She wound up and hit him again, this time her clenched fist…

Read more In which Wy loses her temper.

Enter Charles.

“Liam!” Wy said involuntarily, and started forward. “Sir?” Trooper Prince said.  “How did you get here?” The man turned his head toward them, bringing it full into the light from one of the windows.  Wy halted.  So did Prince. He was tall, broad-shouldered and long-legged, with thick dark hair going a distinguished gray at the…

Read more Enter Charles.

Saint he might have been, you could smell Francis of Assisi coming long before you saw him.

Thomas Cahill is determined to redeem the Middle Ages from the likes of William Manchester (A World Lit Only By Fire) and Mark Twain (A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court). On the contrary, Cahill writes The reputation of the Middle Ages for thuggish cruelty is largely (if not wholly) undeserved. which I find a…

Read more Saint he might have been, you could smell Francis of Assisi coming long before you saw him.

reporting in from Storyknife

One month from today, the first writers arrive at Storyknife. From this: to this: Three hundred eighteen women writers applied for a 2020 residency. Our executive director, Erin Hollowell, did a superb job of organizing and directing the application and adjudication process, with results that thrilled the Storyknife board. Erin writes: Our current 2020 resident…

Read more reporting in from Storyknife

Family politics, Newenham style.

    “Why are you telling me all this, Ms. Choknok?  I had heard–“  He hesitated. She stood up and brushed off the seat of her pants.  “You had heard that Kelly McCormick was my blue ticket out of Newenham.” “Well, yes.” She offered him a chilly smile.  “He was.  My parents are so scared…

Read more Family politics, Newenham style.

Free land, my ass.

Free land, my ass. According to this novel no one ever worked harder or suffered more disappointment than the original farmers who bought into the federal “giveaway” of Midwestern acreage provided by 1862’s Homestead Act. David and Mary Beaton nearly starve in their efforts to bust sod and plant wheat and make a living, in…

Read more Free land, my ass.