Ian M. Anderson

I planned to post something entirely different today, however, that piece isn't finished. So, in its place, I've decided to share a small picture of our pink azalea. The lower temperatures we experienced a few weeks ago delayed its bloom, but, as you can see, it's doing fine now. In this difficult time of quarantine, this plant has been a bright spot for us. I hope it is for you, too. Hopefully, in two weeks I'll have that other post done!

Below is a very short prologue to a book I started years ago -- just a small glimpse into yet another story that's still working on me. *** It was like this: In a suburb of a certain city, a letter fell from the delivery slot in a front door; the metal clang died, and the envelope slid to a stop. Around the corner in a dimly lit living room, a set of ears and eyes went on not hearing, not seeing; the ears didn't notice the pad-pad-pad of feet slapping the sidewalk as they rushed away or the whispers in the air of the house as the words contained in the letter begged to be let out; neither did the eyes see the small shadow as it danced across the lawn or the flapping wings overhead as birds the size of throwing stones tried to keep up. They didn't notice much of anything. Not yet. And now a boy with skin like chocolate stands and stares at a street sign -- he does not stare because of the houses surrounding him, nor because he is lost. No, he stares be...