Baby Wrens

ياسر عبد الوهاب

0 min

Arts & Philosophy

Description

NOTE FROM MIKE: We plan to release “Voice Mail” once per week to subscribers. The first few are free, and even after we go to a subscription model we’ll release some freebie extras now and then. We’ll also release some spur-of-the-moment posts (like this one) to subscribers. We’re new at this, so we welcome your comments. I was awake and worrying before dawn today so I headed to the little room above the garage to work on a novel due out this fall. It’s a dark novel, and one I’m not sure will be well-received. But it’s from the heart and it won’t let me go. So I’m gonna push through until it’s done. I’ve included an excerpt from the rough draft below (including ALL CAPS notes to myself). The photo above was taken right outside my writing room door this morning before sunup. The audio link was recorded yesterday. That’s the second hatch of the summer. ROUGH DRAFT EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL*: He picked the snowshoe from the wreckage, dug around and found the second. He strapped them on and set off along the ridge. THIS PARA MAYBE WHEN HE FIRST GOES OUT...The snow was pure and soft and clean and sugar-sifty. It had fallen throughout the night, ceasing when the sun rose and the temperature plummeted, freeze-drying the air and turning the moisture to rime. Every tree branch, every blackberry cane, every stick and stem was a hoarfrost lollipop. The sky was clear, the air was still, and sunlight splinters ricocheted every which way. The sound of his steps were like a feather drawn through sand. His breath rolled out before him in a gossamer purl. For the first time since the day she died his subconscious fed him a stream of happy associations: him as a child, waxing his sled runners with a block of candle wax; the feel of his belly pressed against the wooden slats of the sled deck as he beamed red-cheeked and runny-nosed into the downhill wind; later, cider with a cinnamon stick; his mothe

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Baby Wrens

ياسر عبد الوهاب

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