Like Bat Masterson, Robert Parker died at his typewriter, a perfect point of departure for a writer whose every word conveyed the enjoyment felt by a born story-teller, and the pleasure Parker took in the company of his many characters, a pleasure the reader shares. Even if Parker had not been a brilliant, innovative story-teller, […]
Robert B. Parker’s Spenser: How to Be a Good Man Read More »
You know, that’s what my sockeyetrist told me. “Catherine,” he said, “you’ve got a person in you, another person besides you, and that person is all the time telling you, ‘Catherine, you’re no good, Catherine, you can’t do thus and that.’ And you are trying to become yourself, but that
A Bunch of Felonies Read More »
White antlers of the night exacerbate my soul. There were gerbils at angles unheard of, perpendicular to themselves. These gerbils: my little sister in her prom dress more expensive than mine. This was in Cleveland. And so on. And so on. This is the kind of thing they mostly print these days, desperate attempts to
During the afternoon of my 21st birthday, I was standing by the garden along one side of our house with my father, Walter McCollum. We were looking at the peony buds as they prepared to bloom into great globes of cream and magenta. The sepals were alive with black ants. “Those *%*)(#! ants!” my father
Mother *%*)(#! Tongue Read More »
The dying stare beyond you into some other world when you look into their eyes. They gaze intently beyond your care, your grief, beyond your dream. Tonight, you stare up toward where my friend sang his last song, silenced as he was. He’d been gone a day, and where you look now, a bird sang,
The Stare of the Dying (for Richard and Sophie) Read More »
Late summer had toasted the grass and weeds, But in the field I found a dandelion ghost, A perfectly spherical puffball of a hundred seeds. I pinched it off and huffed and watched the seeds coast On the random eddies, out, out from my breath Over the exhausted field, like paratroops let from a plane