The ‘Firsts’ of Spring
Tricia’s Blog
T his is the season of firsts, eagerly and duly recorded: first robin, first daffodil, first leaf buds, first day above sixty and then seventy degrees. In the northern part of the U.S. where I live, such firsts are savored as incontrovertible evidence, more telling than the date on the calendar, that winter has finally lost the tug of war and spring is winning the battle.
Lazarus
Buddy told Father Simpson the whole story in one breath… “We want you to resurrect him.”
Fiction by
Patricia Crisafulli
Passion for a Prisoner
“Last warnin’, to the pair of ya. Git out’n here now fore I let loose. Emsie, you come first, girl. I ain’t meaning’ to shoot ya, but I sure am itchin’ with this trigger.”
Fiction by
Tom Sheehan
Deep Water
Fiction by
Patricia Crisafulli
Sylvia was the first to arrive, twenty-two minutes before the class was scheduled to begin. Scanning the six long tables arranged in a rectangle, she decided to take a seat in the middle along the far wall, her back to the windows overlooking the parking lot. The flyer carried in her purse calmed the buzz of fearful embarrassment that she might have arrived on the wrong day or at the wrong time.
Connections
Snow Day: Making Tracks in an Unmarked World
Tricia’s Blog
B eyond the rim of snow banks, around the bend where the trail angles into the trees, lies an expanse of white as unexplored as a blank page. No matter that countless sneakered feet and bicycle tires ply this path in every season, on this wintry day all traces of humanity are scoured away by the wind’s husky breath.
One Way
In my search for existential truth, I would have settled for some directions.
Essay by
Patricia Crisafulli
Stepping Out of the Return Line
Essay by
Hilary Sopata
There is nothing wrong with self-improvement, but when it comes out of self-loathing it’s negatively fueled and likely to fail. Change should be a product of self-love.
Delwyn’s Feather
Holiday fiction by
Patricia Crisafulli
S now sugared the lawn and whitened the balsam wreathes at the twin bay windows flanking the front door painted red as holly berries. Lacy flakes drifted to earth, one tethering itself to the sleeve of the old black wool jacket that Delwyn Edward Morgan wore.
