Category Unpublished Stories

  When the sun gets behind Little 13th Mountain, the water quiets. Shadows cast by the western slopes cross the lake towards the beach and the boat docks. A line appears drawn carefully in behind the canoes that are still out silently moving in different directions. I watch this from the beach and notice that

Nothing’s perfect. And the Christmas season helps us see the cracks and dusty corners more vividly. The contrast, I suppose, between the heavenly ideal and the normal jumps out at me. This is not such a terrible thing in some ways. After all, the shimmering dream of holiday giving and songsters on busy street corners

  At 8:30 the lake is dead flat. Not a ripple. The silence, which settled down on us as the canoe slid away from the dock, was complete. The eastern sun hit the western mountains along the shore straight on. They were illuminated as if from some inner light. The boat cut a smooth line