• After the Storm, the Dishes Still Need Doing

    You never think to ask what comes after survival, and why would you? It was the job, the destination, and the goal. It’s the first thing and the last thing you think about when things go sideways. You grip it with both hands, teeth clenched, holding on like you’re riding a greased pig through a…

  • Freedom, Fries, and Fussing

    I was standing in line at the post office the other day, which is where I seem to overhear the finest bits of accidental philosophy. That day’s prize came from a fella two folks ahead of me in line. He was on the phone, loudly complaining about how “this country’s gone to hell” and how…

  • Never Look a Chicken in the Eye

    I don’t recall where I first heard it—maybe from old Mrs. Keating, who lived across the street and claimed she could read the weather in her corns—but she said, quite seriously, “Never look a chicken in the eye.” Naturally, that stuck with me the way odd little sayings often do. At the time, I was…

  • AI Pariah

    I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it over and over as long as someone’s willing to listen—or pretend to–learn to use AI before it learns to use you. But ever since I admitted I’ve been fiddling around with the stuff—just harmless dabbling, really—folks have acted like I kicked their dog or started speaking in…

  • Like a Country Gentleman

    It was a good day on the farm; honestly, that means I only cursed once and nothing fell on me. That’s what passes for success out here, especially when helping a friend who’s under the weather. Now, for months, I’ve been eyeing that old gate like it owed me money. Every time I passed through…

  • A Quiet Trot of Memory

    I’ve sat down at the computer today for the first time since Monday. The chair feels as if it’s forgotten the shape of me. The screen blinks patiently, waiting for me to remember why I ever sat down in the first place. Over the years, I’ve written several unpublished columns with Honey walking through, her…

  • Witness to a Black Mass

    Beneath the aging balconies of C Street, where the Comstock’s old grandeur now serves only the tourists, something darker has taken root—an underworld masquerading as entertainment, fueled by saffron, sex, and sacrilege. It started with unusual whispers. Reports of late-night “ghost tours” extending well past 2 a.m., of abandoned buildings glowing with candlelight, and of…

  • Faded Name, Heavy Heart

    There’s a memory I carry that I never quite know where to set down. Doesn’t seem right to tuck it away on the same shelf with the funny stories—like the time I got stuck in a folding lawn chair at a family reunion—or even the thoughtful ones, like remembering my dad’s boots lined up by…

  • Life Is Like a Door

    I was about twelve years old the first time I heard my Uncle Luke say, “Life is like a door—never trust a cow, because the sun can’t swim.” It was one of those sayings that leaves you with a polite smile and the uncomfortable sense that you’ve just been handed wisdom in a language no…

  • Coyote Brain Freeze

    Last winter, when the wind blew so sharp it could shave your eyebrows clean off, I found myself helping my buddy Jim round up his small herd of cattle—twenty-five cows and one bull who thought he was tougher than the weather. Now, I’ve always said yes to Jim’s invitations, mostly because he’s the kind of…