A Small Sound
An eerie fear creeps in, the kind that grows in stature the longer you don’t know where a sound is coming from. The longer you don’t know.
An eerie fear creeps in, the kind that grows in stature the longer you don’t know where a sound is coming from. The longer you don’t know.
Deep in the those woods, where the Severn River winds through White spruces and Balsam firs, I wonder if any of the trees are old enough to have lived during both Jack’s lifetime and my own.
This was the year I stayed. I stayed in a job. I stayed in a place. I stayed in a relationship (marriage, it turns out, will do that).
In some respects, Lincoln in the Bardo doesn’t really feel like a novel at all (despite the insistent subtitle), but is rather a carefully curated collection of voices that reside in some literary bardo between genres.
Our archaeology professor was a young, soft-spoken postdoc who lectured with a thick Italian accent in a lilting, almost sing-song way: “The Etruscan potter realized the bowl from native clay.”
As bags are grabbed and knots are lost
And papers stowed away unread
The ship approaches final berth
The clouds behind, the sun ahead
My heart thunders as I pass the unglittering sign staking out the bucking bronco state: WELCOME TO WYOMING – FOREVER WEST. Here, I think, lies a land I’ve never traveled.
Breq has a lot in common with other sci-fi protagonists: she is impossibly good at everything she does, she has a super-human brain, and she is cagey and mysterious around everyone she meets.
Season 11 aired its first episode on January 3 of this year and picks up, sort of, where its predecessor left off. I say sort of advisedly.
I’m over here with the cognitive capacity to panic endlessly about my impending doom, and I actually have to face that doom, while amoeba don’t even have the cognitive capacity to distinguish Bob the Builder from Dora the Explorer, and they basically get to live forever.