A Collection of Prose and Photography
Hell ain’t some supernatural fire pit, a preacher once told me, where dancing nasties with pitchfork tails and razor nails taunt drowning souls in a magma swimming hole. No, he said, hell, for the dead, is the absence of God and his love and his light. And on this Carolina highway I might well and... Continue Reading →
His mouth is moving, and I nod approvingly though my mind is in the abstract — too easily distracted by stressors, the pressures of existence, the voices of business. A pane of glass between Father and I, and inside: seizures, palpitations in my chest arrest my presence. Oh, what I would to hear a replay... Continue Reading →
B David Larson 