—
-
by Carol Roper Standing behind a glass fence on the terrace of the dream house he and Sofy had designed for their cliff side lot thirty-two years ago, Porter Thomson focused his night vision binoculars on the fishing trawlers off shore along the Pacific North Coast of Mexico. The air he breathed was vibrant with a…
-
Sometimes I wish I didn’t know today what I didn’t know when I was young. When I was young, I believed if only I had a man I loved and vice versa, I’d be happy. We’d be happy. We’d have two kids. Maybe his, from an earlier marriage. None from me. I couldn’t give birth.…
-
A love story. Sundays are my least favorite day of the week. There is ample evidence I’m not alone in this opinion. Hospital workers are reported to dread Sundays; it’s the day most home accidents occur and statistically the day, you’re most likely to be murdered by someone close to you. This Sunday begins the…
-
“You don’t love someone for their looks or their clothes, or their car, but because they sing a song only you can hear.” Oscar Wilde by Carol Roper Hunched over the steering wheel of his newer model Subaru parked under the sole functioning street lamp on a side street in Rosarito Beach, Ted Pruett pondered…
-
Reality, like money, God or traffic signs is a group agreement, a concept. It changes with time and location, occurs in increments or instantaneously is desired or undesired the result is the same disorientation. What was is no longer. Written by Carol Roper. Driving a silver Honda CRV south on California Interstate 5, Jules Hall…
