“We write to create the books that we would like to read, that haven’t yet been written—possibly.”—Joyce Carol Oates
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by Jennifer Frost
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Meg looked up from her keyboard when the outer door opened and a smart young woman entered.
I close all the windows. The wind is picking up & the dust will blow in. In the streaming sunshine, a man walks alone on the dirt road.
Before the wildfire some years back, Grandpa George’s summer place was an ageing cabin, a relic from a time when the mountain resort was a novelty to city dwellers, a picturesque place to get away an hour’s drive from downtown.
Jennifer Frost Writes 