Elizabeth W. Holden

She is eighty-six and her friends are dying. "They're dropping like flies," she grumbles and I see black winged bodies crumbling on window sills when we open our summer house. Flies all over! Brushing them onto the floor, sweeping them up, we drop bl [...]

With evening the red light of the falling sun slides into the river straddles its back, quivers with current, quickening toward sea. Red carries you into the panelled library where your mother and your father sip their drink as the sun sinks into the [...]