Weather is exhausting, isn't it? Today's promised "weather event" was a white-knuckle freezing-rain warning, with lots of panic rays bouncing around, a day of threats and cancellations, but in the end it was ice chips in the fields and a few slippery spots on wood or metal and otherwise just big squalling rain coming at you angry-ways. WHO ARE YOU TO RESIST PLASTIC PANTS? Oona wanted to know how rain gutters worked, and then complained when she splashed herself jumping in puddles. If the temperature sticks or goes warmer, everything should be fine.
People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m