The room was silent. This one had gone further into madness than most. He seemed to believe it. Even I, arguably his only admirer other than Nikki, felt an uneasy chill from the pitch and fervor of Thatch’s diatribe. He was sweating and had chalk dust on his shoulders...
The Professor Ambrose M. Thatch that I knew looked to be in his sixties, short and barrel-like, with a thick mop of white hair all trained to one side. That thick shock of hair tried like hell to cover his enormous ears. They were curled and wavy along the edges, like...
John Jensvold is a 2009 Literary Awards Program Finalist. His entry, What About This One?, will appear in three parts this week. Most would say that I was plenty fortunate to attend venerable Christiansen College in southeastern Minnesota. It was a well-respected...
All bad things must come to an end. Most of us drive back the way we came, caught up with thick but moving traffic on the interstates. But at the junctions of I-10 and I-12 we choke up and lose momentum, feeling farther from arrival the closer we get. Those of us...
We know what we smell like, okay? Hours and hours under the sun or smothered by night heat have us sweating coffee, sweating Red Bull. The clench of old cigarette smoke. Fast food and soda breath. We are covered in pet hair or the sticky evidence of children’s...
