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Excerpts from these short stories:
The winter when Iran toppled its Shah and the world mistook that for good news, John Ripp’s funk turned scary.
“Ice Time.” I’m staring out my dorm window at the white caps the bitter November wind is whipping up on Lake Mendota and stewing about what happened earlier this year back home.
“Twelve-Point Buck.” He turned up State Street and crossed the Chicago River, the wind raking his exposed face like razorblades.
“Ill Wind.” A few more steps and he was standing mid-calf in the Colorado and trembling from head to toe.
“Colorado.” |
“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.” —Song of Solomon