Strawberry fields were wallowing in sunlight that afternoon. McQuesten doesn’t quite have the radiant rows of turnips in greenhouses you’d expect in an “urban farm”, but rather a sprawling jungle of glistening tarps and carrot tops, and frankly, I like it. A tin windmill gleams in the brambly middle field, and if you follow the path along the…
I’ve been writing a story about Chicago recently. It’s taking me places I never thought I’d see, and small pieces of the tale, like debris, are emerging one by one from a thick fog. It’s a very abstract process. As for the story itself, it’s really just a dusty, noisy mess, with images of honking…
A gleaming fingernail of a moon hung over the bird, the pool of saltless water lapping the mossy rock. You know how the Great Lakes curl into Ontario as well as the US? On a map, the point where water meets land would just be a line, but in reality, where the lake licks the…