Nora stood at the edge of the woods and looked back toward the drab barn, the sagging garage, the stoic white house, illuminated by the moon. She imagined her grandmother, Elizabeth, standing there sixty years earlier, looking at the Channels farm for the first time. Rustic boondocks, even then, compared to the bustle of Chicago. Chicago, the big city of the 1940s, where Elizabeth had worked on the sales floor at Marshall Field, gone dancing, skipped town on the El. Nora imagined clubs that sparkled with postwar hopefulness. Sidewalks that glittered under street lamps as Elizabeth trudged home in the early morning rain. Train cars that glowed with the warmth of the bodies of young men returned stateside after too much time abroad. The rain slipped down Nora’s bare arms and the mud spread out beneath her Chucks. The moonlight made her shiver. Everything seemed so clear, and yet the shadows trembled. In the moonlight the edges of the farm whispered their secrets, and Nora didn’t want to hear. 


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  1. Matthia

     /  May 1, 2013

    This one is my favorite so far. Wish I could hear the rest of the tale!

  2. Thanks! It’s part of my novel, so there will be more!


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