“I’ve been thinking about beginnings,” I said. I had been clearing the garden and had paused to marvel at some radish sprouts that were making a straggly line across one of the beds. Coyote was filling the compost bucket.
“In what sense,” he asked. “Spring? New life? Great Blue Heron eggs?” Read more
I had gotten a little turned around (as my grandmother used to say) and I suspected Coyote had something to do with it. We were making soup from the remains of the vegetable bin and we were each holding a knife. Not that I expected that to have any bearing.
“You’ve told stories for ever so long,” I said, starting in on an onion and hoping a little flattery would catch him off-guard, “so what do you think about The Tourist? Should I keep going with it?”
I am morbidly fascinated with the people who debunk Dan Brown’s novels. Brown has created rolicking adventures that are not even that well written but tap into what anybody wants in a story. You don’t even have to be a “conspiracy theorist” (an entire category the debunkers love to look down on) to think there might be mysteries, things hidden in plain sight, “more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Read more