In January, 2014, my wife Amy, our daughter Nyana (age 1 1/2), and I embarked on a 3-week trip to Lesotho to oversee the installation of 4 solar panels and a battery storage system on a community hall in the village of Malealea. The installation was the product of our long relationship with the local Malealea Development […]
Last night was our first real snow of the season. Not heavy, but steady, following the trail of a sunny day with gales of knife-sharp wind that hint of the coming winter. I was walking in the dark, per usual, and as I crested the hill at the end of my road, the clouds broke free […]
Two nights this week I’ve heard the calls of barred owls. Yesterday it was in the gloaming, with the bird so close it sent chills up my spine – kakooo kakooooooooAArooooo. We go on these long walks because Nyana demands it. At 11 months, she won’t go to sleep save under a canopy of stars and […]
On January 1, 2007, Amy (who would ultimately become my wife) and I took the only day we had off together in the foreseeable future to check out bare land in Southern Maine. We had been on the hunt for months – looking for an affordable piece of land to put down roots, to get […]
By Frederick Greenhalgh [Audio clip: view full post to listen] Download Poem Read Aloud by Author (MP3) I’m not religious, but every morning, as I get off work I buy Dixie’s first black coffee and walk home with a disposable cup. The city snores, coughs, and murmurs. Darkness clings to concrete eaves. I trip over […]
By Frederick Greenhalgh A young man, delirious in the desert, goes on a fantastic journey. [Audio clip: view full post to listen] Download this story read aloud by the author (MP3). Dog tired. Dehydrated. An eternity in furnace heat, mostly without water. Still trudging along an unending highway in the painted desert. A blanket of […]
By Fred Greenhalgh In memory, Mark Krasnoff, 1963-2006 Poem inspired by the truth, but not based on reality [Audio clip: view full post to listen] Download Poem Read Aloud by Author (MP3) You preached to me — “Next time FEMA, send lube” as your tongue spilled out black vile “Truth,” you said, “Ask what’s happening […]
I was somewhere dark, cold, wet. On the ground. The ground was what was cold. It was damp and hard. And a terrible odor came into my nostrils. Vomit. Probably my own. My head hurt, but more than just a hangover, the front of it was throbbing. As if I’d fallen. However I ended up on this corner of concrete, it wasn’t kindly.
After thirty hours on a Greyhound bus, I caught my first glimpse of New Orleans: a dim orange glow out of misty dusk on the dark bayou. For all the legend I’d heard, there was no gateway or trumpeter at our arrival, just that bayou, and miles and miles of swamp in every direction that eventually broke into stretches of automalls and billboards along the cracked highway.