She always left him, wandering off like a cat without provocation or explanation, returning just as suddenly and without comment after a day or a week or a month. He loved her, but it was hard to keep track of where he stood in her life. He kept her clothes neatly stacked in a chest of drawers and hoped for the best . . .
Photos from Hard Art, DC 1979‘s DC launch event at Politics and Prose!
The wipers groaned as the snow fell wet and heavy, slushballs exploding on the windshield like multiple exit wounds.
The day couldn’t be more perfect.
Hunched over the wheel, Michael squinted through the chaos to the road ahead, adjusting his course to follow the trenches dug by larger vehicles.
He would finally see his father. His father would finally see him . . .
Now and then, there are moments in a man’s life that offer up complete clarity. They’re rare, and rarer still is the ability to recognize them. It is only the truly intelligent, self-aware man who finds himself in a moment of clarity and actually sees it for what it is—and moves forward in a productive way.
Manny Antonio was not that kind of man . . .
To celebrate the release of The Family Mansion, Hirsh Sawhney asks Anthony C. Winkler about his writing process; what he thinks should be required reading for people interested in the Caribbean; and why writing screenplays is so different than writing a novel.
This month, we’ve released three spectacular novels—Every Boy Should Have a Man by Preston L. Allen, The Family Mansion by Anthony C. Winkler, and the second novel in our Open Lens imprint: The Roving Tree, by Elsie Augustave. We’ve excerpted all three books in our free May Digit, available available in mobi (for kindle) and epub formats.
The vaporetto turns the bend.
You’ve seen it in countless paintings by Canaletto, Turner, and others, a thousand and one photographs and movies and TV documentaries, but still the eternal view unfolds like a slow-motion epiphany.
The Grand Canal in all its majesty. Canal Grande . . .
Mita landed in Kingston at three and instructed the cabby to take her to the Courtleigh . . . Knutsford Boulevard . . . New Kingston.
A slip of paper with the addresses and names was getting damp in her bra. She gazed out the window at the glittering sea, trying hard to relax, but it was impossible. The sea hugged the side of the flat smooth road for miles until it cut away from the sea altogether and became narrow and rutted and cars swerved dangerously past the meager little houses leaning shoulder to shoulder. Soon they were in the heart of midtown in slow-moving traffic, the sidewalks overflowing with people, and floors and floors of office windows climbing to the sky . . .