Fall 1982

Four riders cross the cattle guard and access the past on a crushed limestone gravel road just off U.S. Highway 377. On either side of the cattle guard, stately rock columns solemnly anchor the iron support bar from which is suspended the V [BAR] H sign. It's been 30 years. A rundown … Continue Reading ››

When he awoke, Chấn placed his hand above his heart to reassure himself it still pulsed. Sometimes his heart beat so fast he feared it would pop out of his chest. Other times, like now, it beat wobbly and slow, like a rickety old man walking with a cane. Outside his window, the morning din assaulted … Continue Reading ››

Staring at the Chinese wall calendar hanging next to a threadbare tapestry, Lan understood, even accepted, that 2002 would be the last year of Võ Chấn’s life. She held her brother’s pain as if she, too, were dying. Lan walked to the window and opened the shutters to draw in the afternoon sun. From the second … Continue Reading ››

Crawling to the motorcycle, he retrieved his pistol and down sleeping bag. After unrolling the mummy-shaped bag, he slapped it across the wet, rocky surface, and then slipped inside. His ankle felt like someone had whacked it with a sledgehammer. He wouldn’t be jogging, or riding, anytime soon. Marooned in the San Juans, Kannon closed his … Continue Reading ››

You may recall that you generously gave me a copy of your book of poetry entitled Whirling Fire during our weekend together. I read it carefully soon after returning home. Although I must confess that I've never learned to properly appreciate poetry, I was touched by some of the imagery and emotion you conveyed between … Continue Reading ››