Blog – Krin Van Tatenhove

Writing From In-Between Places, by Michael Braswell

My grandmother was born in the late 1800s. She believed in the Spirit world which she introduced me to during my childhood summer stays with her. Evenings spent in rocking chairs on the front porch of her small farmhouse lasted well into the night while I listened to her life as she spoke it. She showed me how to become aware of what was present though unseen, how the hidden influenced what seemed apparent. I came to think of this moving mosaic as in-between places where surprises emerge from a variety of experiences and sources which nourish and encourage my writing. From a laughing child throwing tinsel on a Christmas tree, to seeing fear in the expectations of others, to hearing the hushed sounds of twilight’s last breath as night falls, or feeling the wind on my nine-year-old face while riding the top of a yellow pine—these and countless other flashes feed the good, bad, and in-between of life as I have lived and tried to write about it.

Much of my nonfiction and academic writing on justice issues was informed by growing up in the Deep South during the 1950s when racial injustice was commonplace, as well as time spent working with young brain-damaged boys at Central State Hospital, and as a prison psychologist in Georgia. Writing fiction and poetry has been less restrictive and more liberating, often allowing the story or poem to write me.

One of my writing quirks in that I like to have different projects going on at the same time in various stages of completion. Although I do follow a daily routine of sorts, I seem to write in spurts rather than at a set time each day. It is not uncommon for the ending of a story to come to me not far from its beginning, or the idea for phrasing a poem or piece of dialogue to come in a dream or between sleep and wakefulness. At some point in my writing, a kind of internal prompt occurs which spurs me on until a rough draft is finished.

In the end, I always ponder this question. Do I create a story or simply serve as a conduit for a story to be told through me? I suppose I believe imagination and creativity grow in the dark and in-between places, and what emerges is a kind of compassionate cooperation between story and author.

June 22, 2026 by krinvan Tags: memories, poem, poems, poetry, writing Leave a comment

Writing 101, by Ralph Bland

Years ago, when I first began to write seriously, my plan was to always connect Point One to Point Two in some sort of scientific method, hoping to proceed that way toward a happy fulfillment. I envisioned the process being completed in a prearranged way with an outline and notes to help me along, but there always came a moment when I suddenly sat back and said “Whoa!” This was the time when I discovered that my protagonist was acting funny and had stepped outside his planned activities and my mapped-out plot had gone in strange, different directions. All at once my storyline was not anywhere near the place I’d envisioned it to be, and I’d find I didn’t know what kind of book I was writing anymore. What started out as a smooth process now had detours and sinkholes that caused my stories to stop and swerve and run off my planned narrative highway onto the literary shoulder. On those occasions, I found myself having to pause with my plans and ask myself the disconcerting question -what do I do next?

I’ve written a slew of novels at this point in time, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised anymore when I discover I’m not really in charge of my project anymore. It always seems to be a case of the components of the manuscript stepping up to the fore and announcing they are taking over. I’m forced to throw away my previous conceptions and find a seat in the audience and let the characters and the plot and the style join together as a team and do what needs to be done to move the process along. All the stuff that was originally in my head doesn’t get totally discarded, but is used in this new approach as filler and launching pads for what is being revealed to me each writing session. It’s amazing what characters step to the fore and how the narrative proceeds when I simply get out of the way and let things flow naturally.

This is not to say that once the auto-pilot mode takes over that everything then becomes smooth and peachy. Oh no. There are still moments when the plot or the characters freeze and stumble and lose their way, and that is the time I arise from my desk and go take a walk and let the whole shebang take a breather. I and my stumbling manuscript jointly kick back and stew in our own juices a while. And usually when I return to my desk, there are fresh ideas and new avenues waiting there for me to consider. I simply practice the art of stillness for a time and allow my muse to interact with the world living in my manuscript. I find if I don’t get so anxious and give all the elements time to breathe, the right scenarios soon appear and the wagons get rolling again.

It’s entertaining sometimes to go back and study my old notes and initial outlines after a manuscript has been completed and take notice of how much my plans changed or did a complete about-face or disappeared in their entirety. More times than not, the initial sketchings and the finished product don’t resemble each other much at all, and from what I’ve learned over the years, the end result is generally much better than what my feeble brain conjectured in the first place.

My technique is never going to end up in the Writer’s Holy Grail Handbook on how to create and be successful. All I know is that somewhere along the way I learned how to get out of my own way and trust that the plates and dishes I’d been juggling would eventually find their place in the manuscript without shattering into pieces. Instead of forcing new truths onto the page or inventing narratives that don’t belong, I’ve learned to let the story settle into its own shape and reveal what it’s been trying to say all along. I’ve learned one can spoil the dinner if the broth gets added to and stirred too awfully much.

My process for writing then is to take some time to allow the words to simmer. Take a break and let the planet take a few spins. The possibility exists that upon your return you might find there’s been some blending going on and your words have become part of a nice stew. You can start writing again and the chances are you’ll be able to see down the road much more clearly without the jumble of wasted paragraphs fogging your vision. Maybe your headlights have illuminated the destination or maybe it’s just the clouds have lifted and you’re able to see what was there all the time. Sometimes a little patience goes a long way. Sometimes all one needs is some distance from the manuscript for a time, a change of perspective, a deep breath before moving forward. Think of it as a poolside break before climbing the ladder and going off the high dive again.

June 17, 2026 by krinvan Tags: books, creativity, fiction, publishing, writing, writing-tips Leave a comment

Tupam’s Reckoning

1759, Mission San Antonio de Valero, Province of Tejas, Viceroyalty of New Spain

Near dawn, Tupam was already carrying heavy limestone blocks. They pressed into his forearms, scraping skin hardened by months of labor. Chilly air drifted over the river his people called Yanaguana, settling over the mission compound where shadows clung to unfinished walls and wooden scaffolds. The Franciscan priests called this God’s work, but Tupam wondered why their god sought beauty in buildings instead of the sacred earth surrounding them.

He was seventeen years old, lean and sun-browned from a life spent outdoors. A year earlier he had walked the open land beside his father, Keta, following traditional deer trails. He had learned where fish gathered beneath river bends. He had slept beneath stars instead of roofs. Now bells ruled his days. Bells for prayer, for labor, for meals, and for sleep. And as the mission walls climbed higher, he felt his people’s world growing smaller.

The promise of food and security within the compound had seemed beneficial at first, even to Tupam’s family. Like many of his band, the Payaya, they had accepted the terms because of their fear of raiding Apaches from the north. But then came the coercive pressure to be baptized, coupled with increasing restrictions. Some realized their mistake and attempted to flee, but were tracked down and punished by soldiers from the presidio.

“Tupam,” came a voice from behind him. He turned to find Father Ignacio approaching through the early morning light. The priest was young, but age lines already framed his eyes. He moved quietly, his sandals brushing dust from the packed dirt.

“You should be wearing gloves,” Ignacio said in Tupam’s dialect, his Spanish accent thick.

“I have none,” Tupam replied.

The priest hesitated. “I will see what I can do.”

Tupam nodded and turned back to his task. Father Ignacio treated him kindlier than most, teaching him from translated catechisms, first in his own language, then in Spanish. Tupam learned quickly, and before long the priest was bringing him lessons that few others received. Ignacio often returned to the same passages spoken by his god named Jesus. Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Blessed are the peacemakers. The words sounded noble enough, but Tupam couldn’t understand why men who employed soldiers seemed so intent on teaching them.

Near midday, Tupam found his father, Keta, carrying timber, his shoulders straining from the weight.

“You lift too much,” Tupam said. “We all lift too much.”

His father glanced toward the unfinished church. “They build walls around our bodies first,” he said quietly. “Then around our minds.”

Tupam lowered his gaze. His father spoke like this more often now, especially at night when the bells stopped ringing and shadows hid dangerous thoughts.

___

The diseases carried by the Spaniards came first. Tupam’s younger sister, Sani, survived the fever, but others didn’t. Ten children died within a single moon. An elder who had once remembered every hunting trail was gone, as was a woman who carried the old songs in her memory. Death moved quietly through the mission, taking without warning or mercy. The priests prayed over the sick as though grief could simply be folded into their daily routine.

While he worked under the sun, Tupam often thought of fishing beside his grandfather beneath the open sky. He recalled listening to stories rise with the firelight at night, the smell of mesquite smoke drifting through their camp. Their life had not been easy, but they had enjoyed a freedom so ordinary that no one had given it a name. Now Spanish cattle trampled the old gathering grounds. Children answered to Christian names, and their traditional language was more fragmented with each passing day. Tupam even heard himself thinking in Spanish sometimes, which frightened him more than anything else.

One evening, Father Ignacio paused while teaching Tupam in an unfinished wing of the mission.

“You are reading better every day. You learn so quickly.”

Tupam looked up from the rag paper page in his hands. “I still wonder why you teach us all this.”

“Because knowledge brings power, and it should belong to everyone.”

A humorless smile touched Tupam’s face.

“My people had power before the soldiers came.”

Ignacio hesitated.

Tupam met his eyes. “Now we need permission to leave. Permission to hunt. Permission to live as we always have.” He held up the catechism. “Will these words give that back to us?”

The priest’s gaze drifted toward the unfinished walls beyond the doorway. “Knowledge is still a kind of power,” he said at last, but the words sounded rehearsed.

Tupam studied him. “Even for us?”

Something flickered across Ignacio’s face.

“Especially for you.”

Did Ignacio believe his own words? wondered Tupam. He felt conflicting emotions about the priest. Cruel men were easy to understand. They could be hated openly and resisted clearly. But men who saw the suffering around them and still convinced themselves it served a greater good were harder to fathom. Tupam sensed a genuine struggle within Ignacio, but it changed nothing.

___

Weeks passed and summer settled over the mission, pressing heat into limestone and bare skin. One afternoon, an older worker named Tecan refused to continue laboring. His hands bled openly, and exhaustion bent his body so badly he could barely remain standing. A soldier crossed the distance without hesitation and struck him hard enough to send him collapsing into the dust.

No one moved—not the workers, not Tupam, not even Father Ignacio. The priest simply turned back to his work, and as he did, something inside Tupam snapped. He clearly remembered another lesson from the catechism. If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also. Did the command only apply to people like Tecan? he wondered. No one asked the priests or the soldiers to obey it. Tupam also recalled the Romans mocking Jesus before his death. Father Ignacio had spoken of their cruelty with obvious sorrow, yet he showed no remorse today as the soldier struck Tecan.

Anger stirred inside him and for a moment he imagined what it would feel like if fear changed sides.

That night he lay awake listening to the wind pass through unfinished beams overhead. Beside him, Sani coughed softly in her sleep while his father stared upward into the sky with its billions of stars.

“You cannot sleep?” Tupam whispered.

“No.”

“Because of Tecan?”

“No.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then his father spoke quietly. “I dreamed of your grandfather.”

Tupam waited.

“He asked me why I stay.”

The darkness seemed to grow heavier around them.

“Why do we stay?” Tupam whispered.

His father didn’t answer.

___

Two days later, Keta disappeared. There had been no farewell, only an absence his family felt immediately.

“His spirit was already gone,” his mother said with sad resignation. “Now the rest of him has followed. Let us hope they never find his tracks.”

A group of soldiers rode out before dawn the next morning. One day passed, then another, and Tupam’s family dared to believe that Keta had truly escaped. Perhaps freedom still existed somewhere beyond the stone walls.

Then, on the third day, the soldiers returned, Keta walking beside them with his hands bound and a bruise darkening one side of his face. He had not been beaten badly, which almost made it worse. What they brought back to the mission was something quieter and far more devastating than violence. It was humiliation, a lesson meant for everyone who was watching.

Workers gathered silently as a soldier cut the bindings from Keta’s wrists.

“Try again,” said the soldier in Spanish, “and we will bring you back. We will always bring you back.” Though many of the workers didn’t understand the Spaniard’s words, his meaning was unmistakable.

That night, Tupam sat beside his father in the darkness of their sleeping quarters. For a long time neither of them spoke.

Finally Tupam asked, “How far did you go?”

Keta was silent before replying. “Far enough that I could no longer hear the bells. Far enough to sleep beneath the stars and wake to the sound of nothing but the wind.” His gaze drifted toward the darkness outside the door. “I wanted to remember who I was before these walls. Before their prayers. Before they made us seek permission to walk the land that has always been ours.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Keta turned toward his son, and Tupam saw the hopelessness in his father’s eyes.

“And I thought about you,” Keta said quietly, “I began to think that you belong more to this place than to our people.”

The words struck Tupam harder than the butt of a soldier’s rifle.

___

As autumn settled over the land, sections of the mission neared completion. Tupam spent his days laboring and his evenings bent over the lessons that Father Ignacio placed before him. Reading was no longer a struggle. The words now flowed with a familiarity that would have astonished him only months earlier.

He became more familiar with each episode in Jesus’s life—his arrest, his humiliation, and his execution. In the contempt of the soldiers, the silence of those who stood by, and the punishment of an innocent man, he recognized the world he had come to know within the mission compound.

One afternoon, Father Ignacio found him sitting alone on a stone wall, taking a break from the work.

“You missed your lesson last night.”

Tupam shrugged. “I was tired from all this work.”

“We all work.”

A bitter laugh nearly escaped Tupam. “But we don’t all work the same.”

Father Ignacio sat beside him as the afternoon wind stirred grass in the courtyard. “It seems you’ve been hearing something in the lessons that I never intended to teach.”

Tupam nearly laughed in the priest’s face, choking back his anger. “No, I’ve been hearing exactly what the lessons teach. And I see how those who run this place fail to live by them.”

Ignacio’s expression hardened. “You see walls. I see children who survived the winter. I see protection from your enemies.”

Tupam watched a line of laborers carrying stone across the yard. “You speak of salvation. What if we do not wish to be saved?”

The priest was silent for a beat. “Your people came here because they were hungry and afraid. Do not pretend there was no suffering before we arrived.”

Stunned by Ignacio’s arrogance, Tupam nodded toward the workers. “My uncle died carrying those stones.”

Ignacio’s expression hardened even further. “I know.”

“And our children speak your language now.” Tupam looked down at his hands. “Some can’t even remember the old stories.”

“I know what has been lost,” said Ignacio, “but I also know what has been gained.”

Tupam could barely control his anger. He knew that if he unleashed it, the soldiers would quickly be upon him. Through clenched lips, he said, “You taught me that blessed are the peacemakers. Then why do soldiers guard your peace with rifles?”

The priest’s shoulders sagged a bit and he looked away. For a while, neither of them spoke as dust drifted through shafts of sunlight between the unfinished walls.

Finally Ignacio said, “I have seen faith transform lives.”

Tupam thought of his father, of the desperation that had driven him to flee.

“Has it transformed this place?”

Ignacio didn’t answer.

Tupam thought of the stories he had been reading. “Those men who condemned Jesus, did they believe they were doing wrong?”

The priest looked at him sharply.

“No.”

“Then they were certain, too.”

Ignacio looked away.

“I am trying not to hate you, Father.”

The priest turned back to meet Tupam’s eyes. “I know.”

“But I believe your Jesus would hate this place.”

The sudden sadness in Ignacio’s eyes was something Tupam would never forget.

___

Winter crept in by degrees. Mist rose from the river each morning, lingering a bit longer as the days grew colder.

One evening, Tupam wandered beyond the mission’s boundaries—not so far to cause an alarm, but enough to breathe freely. His mother found him there, and together they watched the sun settle beyond the trees, painting the sky orange as darkness slowly crept along the river’s edge.

“Some of the children asked me about life before the mission today,” she said softly.

“What did you tell them?”

She was quiet for a bit. “Very little.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because they listened as if they might someday enjoy that life for themselves.”

The words hung between them.

“And they won’t?” Tupam said, but it was more a statement of fact than a question.

Sadness touched her face. “I cannot predict the future. But I am tired of filling children’s minds with hopes that this place has taken away.”

He thought of his mother’s words as he tried to sleep that night. This loss they all felt was wearing them away. The smoldering anger that had been building inside him was now a bed of coals that refused to cool.

___

One night he found an old bundle hidden beneath blankets near his family’s sleeping mats. Inside was his grandfather’s stone knife, its surface worn smooth by years of use. The moment his hand closed around it, something hardened inside him. It wasn’t hatred toward the soldiers. Soldiers were simply obeying orders. But Father Ignacio was different. The priest had taught him to recognize injustice when he saw it. He had placed the story of an innocent man condemned by powerful authorities into Tupam’s hands and asked him to revere it. Then he walked each day through a mission built upon the suffering of people who were no longer free to leave. The contradiction had become unbearable for Tupam.

Long after the mission had gone quiet, he took the knife and walked alone beneath the cold moonlight toward Father Ignacio’s quarters. He passed sleeping families and unfinished scaffolding where labor would begin at dawn. Above him rose the mission, not a sanctuary but a fortress.

By the time he reached Father Ignacio’s door, he carried the weight of everything that was slipping away: hunting trails swallowed by mission fields, children speaking Spanish more easily than their own language, ceremonies no longer practiced, and elders who died before passing on what they knew.

As he stood there galvanizing his anger into action, he suddenly remembered another lesson from the catechism. Those who live by the sword will die by the sword. He had hated the words when he first heard them, wishing that the soldiers who bore arms around him would die violent deaths.

But now, he hated that the words rang true, and he imagined Jesus speaking to him personally.

Wind moved softly through the compound. Tupam looked down at the knife in his hand and thought of Jesus standing quietly before his tormentors—a man beaten, mocked, and killed by people convinced they were serving a righteous purpose.

For a long time, Tupam had wondered how such a thing could happen. Standing outside Father Ignacio’s door, he finally saw that the men who condemned Jesus had never imagined that his story was about them.

Slowly, Tupam lowered the knife.

The Yanaguana flowed through the darkness beyond the walls, and above him the stars burned cold and distant.

Perhaps, he thought, Jesus did not belong to empires or missions. Perhaps he stood instead with those forced to bear the weight of both.

The thought settled uneasily within him.

June 12, 2026 by krinvan Tags: alamo, bible, christianity, colonialism, faith, god, history, jesus, native-americans, short-story Leave a comment

SO, YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER? – by David Clear

Mrs. Blythe’s 2^nd grade class, 1962: The Magical Letters on the Wall

They were posted above the blackboard. All 26 of them, upper and lower case, neatly drawn on lined paper and large enough to see from a distance. They were designed to be a chore to learn and to copy, but to my seven-year-old eyes they seemed to radiate a light, an energy of some sort, different from everything else in the room.

When I reflect on this memory, one truth emerges—I was in love with the alphabet, with the words it could create, and with the worlds those words could fashion.

My mother bought me the World Book Encyclopedia while I was still in my single digits. I fell further in love with words, ideas, and stories. I am most thankful to my mother for encouraging me to learn how to use a typewriter and buying me one of my own. After the slow and cumbersome world of cursive writing, it was like being catapulted to the 24^th century of Star Trek.

And then, when I was able to upgrade to an electric typewriter, I was officially lost forever in the So You Want to Be a Writer nebula.

I started my first novel length story at 14 years old, a mishmash of romance, adventure, Beatle’s music, and psychic phenomenon. I experimented with sci-fi and espionage scenarios but burned up the most typewriter ribbon ink and paper on classic adolescent angst journals.

I was a scribbling prospector wandering the bookstores by day and thinking, by night, that golden nuggets were rolling off my electric typewriter. Just a matter of time before the world found out about them.

“Writers are only successful after they’re dead,” my dad told me. I disagreed, of course. After all, I saw writers like Gore Vidal, Norman Mailer, Richard Bach, Erica Jong, Stephen King, and others being interviewed on nighttime talk shows, an obvious sign of success.

Nevertheless, it didn’t take me long to realize that the arduously slow task (by 21^st century standards) of sending in stories on a typewritten piece of paper with a self-addressed stamped envelope, only to receive a rejection, wasn’t going to earn me any money to pursue it as a career.

To write, perchance to dream of making money at it; ay, there’s the rub.

It would be interesting (and likely depressing) if the ratio of wannabe paid writers to actual paid writers could be calculated. And when I say paid, I don’t mean utilitarian authors who write for newspapers, ad copy, or technical journals. I mean bestsellers like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Harry Potter, the DaVinci Code, The Celestine Prophecy, or The Andromeda Strain.

Herman Melville had explosive success with his first two books, Typee and Omoo. But then, Moby Dick. The readers of his time didn’t get it. It sold only about 3700 copies in his lifetime. But the fact that it stands today as a masterpiece of American literature redeems Melville’s inner drive and vision to create something that went beyond the commercial market and challenged the consciousness of the reader. Melville, like F. Scott Fitzgerald and others, died well before their work achieved iconic status. I would suspect by then they were dispassionate about becoming earthly literary legends and were on to working on other, more universal projects.

I think the most important lesson I’ve learned about writing over sixty years is that the passion for it and practice of it is, first and foremost, its own ultimate and eternal reward. At age 92, the famous cellist Pablo Casals was asked why he still practiced. “Because I think I’m making progress.”

Being an author may seem to have greater cachet than being an HVAC repairman. Having lived in the south for many years, I can tell you honestly that the HVAC repairmen were equally, if not more, essential to my well-being than A Farewell to Arms. My interaction with the HVAC repairman is as valid and important in its own way as a reader’s interaction with what I have written. The difference, of course, is utilitarian versus personal. By sharing my inner worlds through my words, I am becoming more open to another human being than were I just the repairman who says, “well, the system is out of freon.”

But people connect and share with each other in many ways all the time. In that sense, writing is just another aspect of the nature and rules of human life: there’s much to learn, and doing it well takes regular study and practice.

At this very moment, millions of people are, like me, hovering over keyboards trying to channel what is percolating within them. Many others are “just” doing their jobs, raising their children, exercising, meditating, or traveling. All of them are drafting their stories by being. Whether in the form of a New York Times bestseller, or in a child’s eyes, I believe everyone’s story is heard, read, and felt.

So, paraphrasing Twain, it would seem the difference between being a writer and being a highly paid successful writer is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. And who’s to say which is more rewarding?

Kurt Vonnegut wrote the following words in a letter dated November 5, 2006, addressed to students at Xavier High School in New York City. He had been approached by five students whose assignment was to write to their favorite authors. He was the only one to respond. I think his words capture the gist of what I’m saying.

“Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow”

About the author: David Clear’s novel, Dreaming at the Speed of Sound, is available at this link.” He has also had the following stories published by Story Sanctum: Cresting Wave, Thus Spake Alan, and The Overdue Library Book. David’s collection of short stories entitled The Role of a Lifetime: Stories of Reincarnation in the Theater of the Soul has just been released by Second Shore Publishing. Here is a downloadable PDF copy.

June 5, 2026June 5, 2026 by krinvan Tags: books, creative-writing, fiction, life, memories, writing 1 Comment

The Woman in 4C

No one remembered exactly when Yasmin appeared in the building, which should have been the first warning.

It was a faded, four story complex tucked into a side street of Los Angeles, where ceiling fans clicked through the heat and distant traffic hummed at all hours. Each apartment had a small balcony overlooking the courtyard with its dry grass and rusty park benches. Most of the tenants had been there for years, and certain patterns were like clockwork. Maria in 3B watered her plants at seven each morning. Darla in 1C played the same Coltrane record every evening after dinner. Daniel returned from his nightshift, slamming his door too early in the wee hours. The landlord, Mr. Alvarez, collected rent on the first Monday of the month, never making direct eye contact.

Then one day, without ceremony, apartment 4C was no longer empty. There had been no moving truck and no hauling of furniture up the exterior stairwell. Just a name penciled onto the row of mailboxes.

Yasmin.

The first person to notice her was Maria. Yasmin was standing very still on the exterior staircase, late afternoon sun highlighting her long dark hair. She wore a knee-length charcoal coat despite the heat, and her pale eyes shifted over the courtyard, then the hazy L.A. sky, never settling on one thing for too long.

“Oh,” Maria said, startled into politeness. “You must be new. Did you move in recently?”

When Yasmin turned, she seemed to look through Maria, not just at her.

“I suppose I’m new,” she said, “but I’ve been here long enough.”

Her voice was neither warm nor cold, a bit unnerving.

“Well, let me welcome you,” Maria said. “We’re a close knit group of neighbors.”

“Yes, I know,” said Yasmin.

That answer stayed with Maria long after they parted.

The second person to notice her was Daniel in 3B, though he didn’t realize it until later. A struggling screenwriter by day, he worked swing shifts for UPS, sleeping late and awakening around noon to confront his persistent writer’s block. One day, after a cup of strong coffee, he noticed minute details out of place in his apartment: a book shifted slightly on a shelf, a chair angled a few degrees differently, his notebook open to a page he didn’t recall writing. It wasn’t enough to report a break in; the police would think he was batty.

He told himself he was only tired, but then he read the line in the notebook. It was undeniably his handwriting.

“You keep treating the future like a possibility instead of a memory.”

Daniel stared at the sentence for a long time. Not only was he sure he hadn’t written it; he couldn’t even remember thinking it. And its meaning was so cryptic that he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

That same evening, he came upon Yasmin for the first time. They were in the courtyard near the mailboxes, where Yasmin flipped slowly through a stack of letters. She was still wearing her charcoal coat, and Daniel wondered how someone who had recently arrived could receive so much mail.

“You’re new here?” Daniel asked, trying to sound casual.

Yasmin swung her gaze to him.

“By some definitions of new,” she said.

Daniel frowned a bit. “Right.”

They stood there a beat too long, staring at each other. Daniel was intrigued by Yasmin’s pale eyes.

“You write,” Yasmin said, breaking the silence.

It wasn’t a question.

Daniel blinked as a slight chill ran up his spine. “I try.”

“You doubt yourself,” she said. “That’s the part that always slows you down.”

Daniel felt a flicker of irritation. “Do I know you?”

Yasmin considered that, as if weighing her answer.

“Not yet,” she said.

Then she slipped past him and ascended the exterior stairs, leaving him with a feeling he could only describe as queasy

By the end of the week, everyone in the building had a story. The college student in 4D swore that Yasmin quoted a line from her private journal. A struggling actor on the second floor insisted that Yasmin quietly muttered lines from an audition scene he had only practiced alone. An older woman near the back stairwell said Yasmin asked her whether she planned to visit her son in Sacramento again, even though she’d told no one of their estrangement. Mr. Alvarez insisted he had no record of a lease for 4C, though he remembered collecting rent from someone. One tenant claimed that Yasmin congratulated him on a promotion before he even applied for the position. Another said she passed Yasmin in the hallway and heard her softly humming a song played at her husband’s funeral twenty years earlier. The young couple in 1A had been arguing in the hallway when Yasmin passed them and casually remarked, “You already know which one of you leaves first.”

The stories overlapped in an unsettling way that was clear to all of them. Yasmin seemed to know things she shouldn’t, and she never seemed surprised.

Maria tried to ignore it. She had lived in the building long enough to understand that people were strange in their own ways. But one morning, as she watered her plants, she noticed something that made her pause. Across the courtyard, through the window of 4C, she saw Yasmin sitting at a desk. A pen rested in her hand, and she was working on something. That wasn’t strange by itself. What was unusual was Yasmin’s rhythm. She would jot down a few lines, pause, then look up as if listening to some source Maria couldn’t see. Then she would nod, put down a few more words, and repeat the pattern.

Maria had always been bold to the point of meddling, a trait that had gotten her into trouble over the years. The next morning, she decided to visit Yasmin and get to the bottom of things.

She knocked on the door of 4C and it opened immediately. “Yes?” Yasmin said.

Maria hesitated. “I hope I’m not bothering you. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Of course,” Yasmin said.

Maria glanced past her with no attempt to hide her nosiness. The studio apartment was sparsely furnished with a desk, a chair, and a bed. No unpacked boxes or signs of settling in.

“What do you do?”

Yasmin tilted her head slightly, her lips curling as if she was slightly amused.

“I pay attention,” she said.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“It is the only one that matters.”

Maria crossed her arms. “People are saying things about you.”

“I’m not surprised. They usually do.”

“That you know things,” Maria pressed on. “Private things you shouldn’t. Things you would have no way of knowing.”

Yasmin studied her for a few seconds, then stepped aside.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked.

Maria should have said no. Instead, she crossed the threshold. The air in the apartment was still, and on the desk was the open notebook she had seen through the window. Maria’s eyes fixed on it longer than she intended.

“Go ahead and read it,” said Yasmin with her cool, neutral tone.

Maria hesitated. “That feels invasive.”

“It’s only invasive if it’s not already yours,” Yasmin said.

Something about that answer unsettled Maria more than if Yasmin had simply refused. Slowly, she approached the desk. The open page was filled with neat, deliberate handwriting, and as she started to read, her breath caught. The words were about her. Not just vague or general observations, but specific details. The way she counted steps without realizing it. The way she avoided calling her sister because she didn’t want to admit how distant they had become. The way she watered her plants at seven each morning because it gave her a small sense of control. The way she sometimes replayed old conversations in the shower, changing what she should have said years earlier.

Maria stepped back, feeling a mix of curiosity and anger.

“How do you know this?” she demanded.

Yasmin didn’t move.

“You told me,” she said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Not in words.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” Yasmin said gently, “if you have the right way of observing.”

Maria shook her head. “This isn’t normal.”

“No,” Yasmin agreed. “Unfortunately, it isn’t.”

Maria shook her head, growing angrier by the second. “But why are you writing about us?”

Yasmin looked at the notebook for a long moment before answering.

“Because people reveal themselves long before they understand what they’re doing,” she said quietly. “Because they rarely notice the full spectrum, just like they can’t see the full spectrum of light.”

Maria frowned with anger “What the hell does that mean?”

Yasmin’s eyes bore into hers.

“It means most people only register one surface of things.”

“And you’re somehow able to recognize all this?”

Yasmin sighed as if she was burdened.

“I’m just catching up,” she said.

___

Maria was the primary gossip in the building, so she quickly told the other residents what had happened in Yasmin’s apartment. That was the exact moment that fear began to take root. It spread quietly at first. A shared glance in the hallway, a conversation cut short when Yasmin came near, and doors that closed more quickly.

Other things happened as well.

Daniel started writing again, feeling a compulsion he hadn’t known for years. The sentences came faster, sharper, and more precise, flowing as if an internal dam had busted. One night, he wrote a line that made his hands go still on his keyboard.

“She sees people the way we usually see memories and unfinished thoughts.”

Daniel stared at the words.

Then he heard slow and measured footsteps outside his door. He got up and cautiously opened it to find Yasmin standing there. He wasn’t surprised.

“You’re getting closer,” she said.

“To what?”

Her expression was almost sympathetic. “To the part where your plot lines stop feeling like coincidence.”

Daniel swallowed. “Who are you, really? Or should I ask, what are you?”

Yasmin considered the question. “Someone who stopped pretending moments arrive one at a time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one that will make sense later.”

Like Maria, Daniel felt a surge of frustration and anger. “Later when?”

Yasmin met his eyes.

“Soon,” she said, then walked away.

___

People had trouble sleeping. The building seemed claustrophobic, as if the walls had shifted slightly inward. Maria lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the words she had read in Yasmin’s notebook. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had already been decided and that she was moving through moments that had been written long before she ever reached them.

In his apartment, Daniel sat at his desk, staring at a blank screen. He knew what he was supposed to write. He didn’t want to, but his hands moved across the keyboard anyway to form a short sentence.

“She never seemed surprised.”

At that instant, sounds erupted through the building: doors, footsteps, and echoing voices. One by one, all the tenants felt the need to exit their apartments and gather in the courtyard, compelled by a something they couldn’t name. Daniel got up for the same reason and joined them.

They looked at each other in the wan light, uncertain what was happening. Then they looked up. The sliding glass door to the balcony of 4C was open, its drapes blowing even though there was no wind.

Daniel glanced around the circle of onlookers. “What the fuck? Maria and I will go up and check to see if Yasmin’s okay. We’ll be right back.”

Maria needed no further prodding. She and Daniel quickly ascended the exterior stairwell, entered the hallway on the fourth floor, and proceed to 4C. The door was open so they stepped inside.

“Yasmin!” called Daniel. No answer. The apartment was empty, but the desk was still there with Yasmin’s open notebook on top.

Daniel approached it hesitantly, then he looked down and read the words aloud.

“The moment you realize you were never standing outside it is the moment you begin writing the story that matters most.”

Maria stepped closer. “What the hell does that mean?”

Daniel turned the page as his face went pale.

“What?” Maria asked. “Tell me.”

He swallowed. “There’s no more. Just blank pages.”

A faint breeze moved through the room through the open sliding glass door.

___

The next day, apartment 4C was empty again. No name on the mailbox. No record with Mr. Alvarez. Not a trace.

The tenants tried to move on, acting as if the whole interlude with Yasmin had been some kind of collective hallucination. The routines of the building resumed. Maria watered her plants at seven. Darla bopped to Coltrane after dinner. The actor rehearsed in front of his mirror. Mr. Alvarez collected rent with his usual stiff silence.

But the familiar patterns no longer felt unconscious.

People hesitated before speaking, as if listening for words before choosing them. Several tenants began anticipating knocks on their doors before they occurred. Others found themselves thinking of people they hadn’t spoken to in years, only for the phone to ring hours later. A woman on the third floor burst into tears; she had smelled her late mother’s perfume in the laundry room just moments before she learned that her childhood home had been sold. The actor began having strange intuitions during conversations where he already knew the next sentence the other person was about to say, along with the exact expression that would cross their face. A young mother on the first floor began setting an extra plate at dinner without understanding why, only to receive unexpected visits from relatives later that evening.

Daniel kept writing, a story about an apartment building filled with a diverse cast of characters and a stranger that came into their midst. He changed the names and altered circumstances, but it was all there. His writing continued to flow freely, unnervingly precise, and he told himself that Yasmin had merely shaken something loose creatively.

One evening he froze after typing a particular sentence that seemed to come from nowhere. “Maria stood at her kitchen sink for almost ten minutes, rehearsing her first sentence before she finally called her sister at 9:14 p.m.”

Daniel stared at the screen.

That night, shortly after 9:00 p.m., he quietly watched Maria’s apartment through a gap in his curtains. Her shades were open, so he could see her clearly. At 9:04 p.m., she stood at her kitchen counter, and ten minutes later she slowly lifted her phone.

Daniel backed away from the window as though burned.

___

No one spoke openly about Yasmin anymore. That was the strangest part. It was as though they had a silent pact to never name what had happened.

Weeks later, Daniel felt the urge to return to 4C. It was still vacant, so he asked Mr. Alvarez for permission, using the subterfuge that he wanted to take pictures for a friend who needed new lodging. Mr. Alvarez shrugged and gave him the key.

Inside, dust had coated the bare floor and the air smelled musty. The room was silent except for that distant traffic hum that seemed to penetrate the entire building. He stood there for a long time before noticing something propped against the sliding glass door on the balcony outside.

A notebook. His stomach tightened because it wasn’t Yasmin’s, it was his.

He opened the door and picked it up. Inside, once again, was a sentence in his handwriting that he had never seen before.

“She was never staying here. She was just teaching you how to see.”

He flipped through the rest of the notebook. It was blank except for a final line waiting on the very last page. It read: “You were noticing long before you understood what you were seeing.”

Daniel slowly lowered the notebook. Across the courtyard, lights glowed behind apartment windows, and for one strange instant the entire building felt conscious of itself.

Then, somewhere in the courtyard four floors beneath him, he heard a woman’s voice drift upwards.

“You must be new here.”

May 23, 2026June 6, 2026 by krinvan Tags: eerie, fiction, mysterious, mystery, short-story, speculative-fiction, writing 1 Comment

What Gets Left Behind

Jayla Elkins, 3; Shayla Elkins, 5; Kayla Pugh, 6; Layla Pugh, 7; Markaydon Pugh, 10; Sariahh Snow, 11; Khedarrion Snow, 6; and Braylon Snow, 5.

I have this odd, persistent obsession with things that get left behind.

The un-popped kernels at the bottom of a bowl. Fruit that ripens past its moment and is consigned to the compost bin. The hardened heel of bread that ends up in the trash can. A sock without its partner. A notebook abandoned after a few hopeful pages. A toy along the highway, thrown out of a window. The last sliver of soap, too small to hold, that slips to the shower drain and dissolves into the sewers. A pen that runs out of ink mid-sentence and is never picked up again. A bent photograph continuing to fade in the back of a drawer.

Small things, for sure, a microcosm of trivial loss. But I see the same pattern playing out in the macrocosm of our lives. Not with objects, but with the human beings that surround us in our hurried, smartphone obsessed society.

Hana Dehqani, 8; Reza Habashian, 7; Arya Bahadori, 9; Ali Asghar Zaeri, 8; Zahra Bahrami, 7; Ahmad Soltani, 8; Hamed Par-ashegh-nezhad, 7; Mahdis Nazari, 7

I see it in those experiencing homelessness, men and women hidden in plain sight. We rarely engage them as neighbors, having learned to quietly turn away.

I see it in children caught in crossfires of war or mass shootings, their lives crushed before they can discover their gifts or embrace their futures. Their names flicker briefly across our TV screens, then disappear into the churn of the next crisis.

Nevaeh Alyssa Bravo, 10; Jacklyn Cazares, 9; Makenna Lee Elrod, 10; Jose Manuel Flores Jr., 10; Eliahna Garcia, 10; Uziyah Garcia, 10; Xavier Lopez, 10; Jayce Carmelo Luevanos, 10

I see it in those living with mental illness or intellectual disability. Their words don’t always follow our expected patterns and their behavior unsettles us. Instead of drawing closer, we too often step back, increasing their isolation.

I see it in nursing homes, which were a regular haunt of mine during my decades of ministry. Some of the residents received visits from family and friends, but some had been virtually abandoned.

Ahmed al-Zaazou, 4: Ayloul Qaud, 7; Tahani Hafiz Barbakh, 3; Hala Abu Steita, 7; Mohammed Salah, 5; Samir Tamraz, 1; Joud Duhair, 7

I see it in immigrants who come to our borders seeking refuge. They arrive with stories stitched together by courage and hope, yet many are confined to detention centers, held in a limbo that erodes their time and dignity. Near my home, there is a one of these for-profit facilities euphemistically called the South Texas Family Residential Center. It has been cited for its abysmal conditions.

It strikes me how ordinary all this has become for many of us. Not because it should, but because we have allowed it. Just as no one thinks twice about tossing the uneaten fruit or ignoring the last slice of bread, we have developed subtle, socially reinforced ways to overlook people without fully realizing we are doing it.

It rarely begins with malice. It begins with distance, distraction, and the quiet assumption that someone else will notice, someone else will act, someone else will care. Perhaps, more importantly, it begins with the mind-numbing regularity of violence and the innocence it leaves in its wake.

Do you know why I’ve included the series of names in this post? They are children lost to unspeakable brutality.

The first were shot by their father, Shamar Elkins, in Shreveport, Louisiana on April 19, 2026. The second are a few of more than 100 killed as America bombed a school in the Iranian town of Minab on February 28, 2026. The third is a partial list of those gunned down by 18-year-old Salvador Ramos on May 24, 2022, at the Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. The fourth is just seven (JUST SEVEN!) of the nearly 20,000 children massacred by Israel in its genocidal sweep through Gaza.

There are too many other lists. You know. I know it.

Anyway, I’m going to finish this post because I need to go out and mow our front lawn. It’s gotten kind of long from recent rain. Then tonight I’ll probably watch an inane show on one of my streaming services.

Catch you later.

Nine of the children gunned down in the Robb Elementary School massacre

April 27, 2026May 25, 2026 by krinvan 2 Comments

Pole to Pole with an Age Old, Liberating Truth

I’ve been watching Pole to Pole, a National Geographic series hosted by Will Smith. His objective intrigued me: “to travel across all seven continents, to explore the world’s most extreme environments, seeking answers to life’s important questions by stepping into the unknown.”

Episode Four finds him trekking to the Himalayan nation of Bhutan. He was there to explore the secret of happiness, famously enshrined by the Bhutanese in their concept of Gross National Happiness. You got that right. GNH, not GNP.

In one scene, Smith sits with a Buddhist monk who offers a disarmingly direct message. If we contemplate death regularly, not as a morbid obsession but as a truth we refuse to look away from, it sharpens our awareness of being alive. It makes the ordinary radiant. It turns the fleeting resource of time into something sacred.

We’ve always known this, haven’t we? It’s one of humanity’s oldest lessons, hiding in plain sight. The fact that we will die is not a curse. It is the condition that gives life its urgency and texture.

And yet, think of how much effort we’ve poured into pretending otherwise.

The pharaohs of ancient Egypt didn’t just accept mortality; they aimed to defeat it. They constructed pyramids, had their bodies mummified, and buried themselves with treasures, all to ensure that their power continued in the afterlife.

Chinese Emperor Qin’s Terracotta Army has stood for two millennia in silent formation beneath the earth. Thousands of life-sized soldiers created to guard him in the next world. Imagine the slave labor, the resources, and the sheer will it took to bring that vision into being. All of it to satisfy an “afterlife ego.”

History is rife with other examples. Roman Emperors deified themselves, casting their likenesses in marble and bronze as a desperate attempt at permanence. Medieval alchemists searched for the elixir of life, convinced that somewhere in the crucible of chemistry lay a secret that could outwit time. Ponce de Leon searched unsuccessfully for the Fountain of Youth.

Fast forward to our modern world. The demand for cosmetic surgery continues to rise, promising a veneer that masks the inevitable. Companies offer cryogenic freezing, allowing us to gamble on a future where science might reverse the irreversible. Even our language reflects our resistance to embrace death’s reality. We “pass away.” We are “no longer with us.” “Grandma is in heaven with Jesus.”

I get it. It’s profoundly unsettling to think that everything we are—our memories, our relationships, our inner worlds—will simply stop. It’s not just our fear of pain or the unknown. It’s the erasure that unnerves us.

As I watched Smith speak to that Bhutanese monk, it was clear to me. The problem isn’t death itself. It’s the energy we spend trying to outrun it.

So, even though it’s obvious, let’s say it again. Each of us will die. Not someday in the abstract, but actually. No exception. No workaround.

The art is to make this a portal to liberation. Once we stop buffering ourselves from death, it clears the clutter and exposes what matters. Petty grievances lose their grip. Delayed dreams start to feel urgent. The people we love become more vivid, more necessary, and more present in our lives.

Contemplating death doesn’t shrink life. It enlarges it. It makes our morning coffee taste a little better. It makes the sunlight on a wall feel like a small miracle. It reminds us that the conversation we’ve been putting off might be worth having today. It prompts us to feel grateful, knowing how quickly everything can disappear.

Let the thought of your own finitude sit beside you today. Not as a threat, but as a companion. Let it moisten your appetite for the ordinary yet EXTRAORDINARY fact that you are alive RIGHT NOW.

This is not a morbid discipline. It’s a beginning.

March 28, 2026May 25, 2026 by krinvan Tags: bhutan, buddhists, carpe-diem, death, life, philosophy, travel Leave a comment

Still Stitching

On a recent morning, I sat near the precipice of the South Rim Viewpoint, Big Bend National Park. Its 2,000 foot plunge gave me more than a tinge of vertigo. I took deep breaths and swept my gaze over the stunning panorama—from the Chisos, across the Chihuahuan Desert floor, over the Rio Grande, to the Sierra del Carmen mountain range of Mexico.

I’ve spent countless hours hiking in backcountries across America, seeking not only the tonic of solitude, but the thrill of views such as this one. If you had been standing near me, you would have heard me exclaim “Ahhhh…”

A naturalist once told me that her forays into the wild are what “stitch her into the fabric of Creation.” I love that! It resonates with me, especially because my day-to-day schedule can too easily consume me, diverting my attention from the beauty that surrounds all of us.

Sitting there amidst the splendor of Big Bend, I thought of other places in my adopted homeland of Texas that have woven me into the natural world. They exist in the present tense in my mind, no matter how long ago I experienced them.

Hiking through Palo Duro Canyon, admiring the variegated colors of its geologic formations.
Closely examining the splendid crystals deep within Sonora Caverns.
Wandering over a boardwalk through the Big Thicket, marveling at carnivorous pitcher plants, sundews, and bladderworts.
Kayaking through the labyrinth of bald cypresses draped in Spanish moss at Caddo Lake State Park.
Strolling along the edge of Aransas Bay near dawn, seabirds squawking around me, a squadron of pelicans passing in silhouette. Light from the rising sun playing over the gulf waters in lava lamp swirls of red and orange.
Touring Spring Lake at the Meadows Center for Water and the Environment, peering through our glass bottom boat at the ancient artesian springs that feed the San Marcos River, alligator gars passing beneath us.
Lifting my arms in joy at the top of Guadalupe Peak!

And then there’s the wildlife I’ve encountered, our native brothers and sisters of so many species!

Coming upon a red-shouldered hawk taking a bath in a stream at McKinney State Park.
Focusing my camera on a baby alligator sitting atop its mother’s head at Brazos Bend State Park.
Thrilling to the vibrant color of a rough green snake as it slithers across a trail at Phil Hardberger Park.
Quietly observing a two-tailed swallowtail as it alights on a thistle bloom in Government Canyon State Natural Area, a perfect contrast of purple and yellow.
Sneaking up on a nine-banded armadillo at Colorado Bend State Park, surreptitiously watching it snort, chuff, and dig for grubs.
Vermillion flycatchers, painted buntings, green jays!

On another trip to Big Bend, I hiked into Santa Elena Canyon for the third time, escorting a friend who had never been there. It was early morning. We sat on a rock and watched sunlight dapple the surface of the Rio Grande like liquid amber. It was mesmerizing.

My friend turned to me and was about to say something. Instead, she glanced back at the golden ripples on the river, then up the steep cliff walls. We heard the melodic call of a black-throated sparrow echoing through the canyon.

My friend turned once again to face me. Our eyes met, we nodded, then each of us took a deep breath of crisp desert air.

We were stitching!

February 23, 2026May 25, 2026 by krinvan Tags: hiking, national-parks, nature, photography, travel Leave a comment

Julia’s Thin Place

To observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence. – Jiddu Krishnamurti

The restaurant smells like toasted sourdough, garlic oil, and espresso. Outside, San Francisco hums with activity. Inside, forks click against plates, chairs scrape across the floor, and a server calls out orders as the lunch rush gathers momentum.

Julia Ravenwood sits with her back to the wall, lost in thought, watching reflections slide across the window glass. She’s a tall woman with cropped black hair and muscles toned from time in the gym. Her face has a strong jawline and cheekbones, but her eyes are soft and lustrous, giving her an androgynous look. Across the table sits her wife, Emily, a blonde whose lithe figure speaks of her devotion to yoga. Emily’s soft features are highlighted by tasteful makeup.

This restaurant is their favorite hole-in-the-wall eatery, conveniently close to the IT firm where they both work.

Emily leans forward. “So,” she says with a smile, circling back to the previous night’s discussion, a theme they’ve rehashed for years, “what did you think of the reading this week?”

Julia sips her coffee. “It was good. Pema Chödrön is a mental warrior, and like I’ve said, on one level I do get it. Mindfulness is attention training, a sort of cognitive hygiene. But the way our culture and your classmates talk about it, like it’s some gateway drug to enlightenment, drives me nuts.”

Emily chuckles. “You’ve always been allergic to overclaim.”

“I’m allergic to claims that can’t survive daylight,” Julia says. “Buddhism talks about impermanence, which I respect. Christianity talks about love, which I respect. Hinduism talks about the divine in everything, which I respect. Then each of them turns around and insists that their map gives the best directions for how to live our lives.”

Emily tilts her head. “Maps can still be useful.”

“Until people start idolizing the map,” Julia says. “Most world religions solve a problem they defined to begin with. The problem of sin, the problem of ignorance, the problem of suffering. But for me, the solutions don’t generalize to the billions of people on our planet. They don’t account for the diversity of human experience. They don’t account for me.”

Emily sips her water as the ice clinks. She has learned to slow play their discussions, never rushing to debate. “What about secular philosophies? We haven’t talked about that for a while. Do any of them still hold your attention?”

Julia smiles despite herself. She loves the repartee. She loves having a partner that will deep dive beyond chitchat. “Stoicism is good for getting through the day but not for explaining why the day matters. Existentialism is honest about the void, which I appreciate, but it treats meaning like a do-it-yourself kit with missing parts. Humanism is lovely, but it assumes our species will be more noble given enough time and good intentions. Really? Just read any fucking news stream and you can see that isn’t true.”

The server drops off their sandwiches. The smell of melted cheese and tomato arises, laced with oregano. Emily waits, letting them both begin eating before responding. That’s one of the things Julia loves most about her. The space she creates, the way she doesn’t try to win conversations.

“I know I’ve invited you to my classes too many times,” Emily finally says. “I get so much from them, and I think you could also. I just want to share the experience with you.”

“I hear you,” Julia says quickly with a hint of exasperation. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d stop asking. I don’t think you’re wrong. That’s your path. I just refuse to perform openness. I don’t want to fake wonder that I’m not feeling.”

Emily nods. “Fair enough. This will be the last time.” She says it in a neutral tone, devoid of disappointment. She’s never been one to gaslight her wife.

They continue eating while the restaurant’s piped-in music features a saxophone bending notes like light through water. Emily watches a couple at the next table lean toward each other, their heads almost touching, and she feels a familiar ache, her mind roaming over the travels she and Julia have shared. Many of those trips were an intentional survey of what others call “thin places.” Julia was searching, as always, and Emily was glad to accompany her.

“I was thinking about Iona yesterday,” Emily says.

Julia’s mouth tightens, then softens. “I remember the wind. The way it smelled of salt and wet stone. And the abbey ruins were beautiful, like the bones of belief. Someone else’s belief.”

Emily nods.

“And nothing happened,” Julia adds, playing her part in the script. “No voice. No burning bush. No sense of being seen by something other than ourselves.”

Emily continues the litany. “Machu Picchu?”

“Stunning,” Julia says. “Green like it had been invented that morning. Llamas chewing like mute philosophers. And those sacred mountains rising against that blue sky! Maravillosa! I kept waiting for my awe to turn into revelation.”

“Ghost Ranch?”

Julia laughs, syncing with the rhythm of their game. “Red earth and wide sky. Georgia O’Keeffe certainly knew how to capture and frame that landscape. I wanted…” She stops, surprised by the sudden nakedness of her emotion. “I hoped something would break through. That I’d feel… addressed.”

Emily reaches across the table and squeezes Julia’s hand. Her palm is warm, familiar, and grounding. “I’ve loved every mile of our travels. Even if they speak to us in different ways.”

Julia looks away. “I can’t help it if I want something more tangible, some kind of contact. Would you want me to change to meet your expectations? I guess I could join your classes if it really means that much to you.”

Emily’s smile is gentle and teasing. “Nope. I love you just as you are, my Iconoclast. And you keep me on my toes. That’s for sure.”

Julia snorts. The Iconoclast nickname has stuck. Even some of their coworkers have begun to use it to address Julia. “I don’t smash icons for fun,” she says. “I just don’t bow to them.”

Emily’s eyes are soft. “I know. It’s just that I see how you get a bit melancholy about all of it. The empath in me can’t help it, especially with those I love.”

Julia looks down at their joined hands. “I really don’t want to be closed. I just don’t want to lie to myself or anyone else.”

Emily squeezes once more, abruptly changing the subject. “We can be open tonight.”

“With a head count?”

“Bearing witness,” Emily says. “Point-in-time counts of those experiencing homelessness really does matter. It can turn their invisibility into the funding that St. Vincent de Paul needs to continue their work.”

Julia nods and shakes off her cynicism. She also believes this, deeply, and has enjoyed volunteering with Emily at the shelter. Outside, a siren rises and falls. “So, the Tenderloin?”

Emily’s mouth curves into a determined line. “The Tenderloin.”

They pay their bill and step back into the city, where the afternoon light of a summer day seems brittle. A bus passes in a whoosh of turbulent air as they begin their two-block return to work. Striding next to Emily, Julia feels a familiar mix of affection and ache for her partner, the longing that comes from loving someone who has a quality you desire for yourself. Her mind roams over the supposed thin places they discussed at lunch. As often happens, she feels a quiet, stubborn hope that she pretends not to have.

___

The sun sets behind the buildings like a coin slipping into a pocket. The Tenderloin smells of asphalt and old beer, of urine and frying onions from a corner food cart, of damp cardboard and sweat. Julia walks with Emily and a small group of volunteers. They are holding clipboards and wearing reflective vests that catch the day’s last light.

The streets are busy, voices drifting from doors and alleys. Julia hears laughter, sudden and bright, then an argument that burns out in mid-sentence. Another person’s cough goes on for too long. From the open window of a building, the thumping bass of a rap song echoes over the street.

The group turns into an alley. It’s narrower than Julia expects, the walls close enough to touch with one’s hands and feet if you were to stretch out on the pavement. There’s cardboard flattened in various places along with dirty blankets. A shopping cart stands sentinel, filled with plastic bags that rustle in the breeze, as if they’re whispering to themselves. About a dozen people are there, some loitering, some already bedding down.

A young Black woman sits on a tarp, her back against the building. She wears a knit cap pulled low, her jacket too thin for a San Francisco summer night, when the legendary fog will likely creep into the city. Her eyes are bright and alert, not guarded like many of the others the volunteers have encountered. She looks at Julia as if she’s been waiting.

“Join me, sister,” she says, patting the tarp beside her.

Emily’s hand tightens on Julia’s arm. “We shouldn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Julia says, surprised by her certainty. She hands her clipboard to Emily, then settles next to the woman. She can feel the cold pavement seeping through the tarp into her pants. The woman smiles at her, and up close, Julia can see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Her gaze is steady, one of those people who seems to occupy her body fully.

“My name’s Mariah,” she says.

“Good to meet you. I’m Julia.”

“Look up,” Mariah says, nodding toward the slice of sky above them.

Julia turns her gaze skyward. Stars have begun to prick through the twilight, resisting the city’s glare. A plane passes, its lights blinking, a mechanical constellation cutting across the dark.

“Do you see it?” Mariah asks softly.

Julia’s chest suddenly tightens. Something speaks to her. It’s not a voice, nor a vision, nor an answer to a question, but a simple and powerful widening. The sounds of the city fall back, as do the smells of the alleyway. Time seems to loosen its grip as the present thickens into a presence both luminous and intimate.

Julia feels it like a warmth spreading through her ribs, like a recognition without an object. She knows intuitively that this is not about proof, but simply the fact of being here, with this woman, under these stars, in this narrow place that opens unexpectedly into a depth she has always longed for.

Tears come, uninvited. Then Julia laughs, breathless, the sound startling in the quiet.

“Yes,” says Mariah. “I see it also.”

Emily crouches nearby, her worry easing into wonder. The other volunteers instinctively give them space. Mariah begins to hum a low tune without words.

They sit for moments that Julia can’t measure because time has lost its edges. Then she becomes aware again, gradually, of smaller things: the chill creeping up from the concrete, the faint ache in her knees, the smell of old rain trapped in the brick behind her. A breeze moves through the alley, lifting a scrap of paper that skitters and settles. None of it breaks the spell. It just folds into it.

She thinks, fleetingly, of all the arguments she has honed over the years. How she has dismantled certainties piece by piece, proud of the clarity she felt she possessed. But in this instant, she realizes that her clarity was never the same as fullness.

Later, Emily will say nothing profound about Julia’s experience. She will not try to name it or wrap it in language that shrinks it. Instead, she will say, “I could see it on your face,” and that will be enough. For now, she waits, honoring the stillness the way she has learned to do, by not interrupting.

Mariah stops humming. The silence that follows isn’t empty. It hums of its own, a low resonance that seems to come from the walls, the sky, even Julia’s own chest. Julia thinks of the word communion and, for once, she doesn’t feel the need to bracket it with disclaimers.

“You never know when it will happen,” Mariah whispers, as if she’s talking about the weather.

Julia nods, unable to speak. When she finally stands, it’s as if her axis has shifted. The grimy, cramped alleyway looks the same, but it no longer feels accidental. It feels chosen, as if this place, of all places, has been quietly waiting to be seen without judgment.

“Thank you, Mariah,” she says.

Mariah smiles. “Come sit with me again, sister.”

Julia and Emily join the other volunteers and they walk on. The count continues with quiet questions and small kindnesses. The city exhales into night, its neon and shadow interweaving. Julia listens to footsteps, to distant traffic, to her own breath, and realizes her search has shifted. The thin place was never somewhere she needed to arrive. It was something that happened when she stopped standing apart.

And now she carries that alleyway with her, as well as the soulful eyes of Mariah. Not as some kind of proof, but as an ongoing invitation.

January 31, 2026June 19, 2026 by krinvan Tags: epiphany, homelessness, mindfulness, san-francisco, short-story, tenderloin, wonder Leave a comment

The Only Law West of the Pecos

On February 21^st, 1896, Judge Roy Bean made national headlines by promoting a unique boxing match. Robert James Fitzsimmons was to fight James J. Corbett, the heavyweight champion, but the Texas Legislature had outlawed boxing. While promoters sought a new location for the match, Corbett retired, handing the title to Irishman Peter Maher, who soon agreed to fight Fitzsimmons. Bean arranged for spectators and the press to travel by train from El Paso to Langtry, where he held the fight on a sandbar on Mexico’s side of the Rio Grande. Texas lawmen had no authority there and Mexico had no law enforcement on hand.

The desert along the Rio Grande looked especially ancient that morning. Canyon walls towered above the sparkling coil of the river. A cool winter breeze blew across the sandbar, carrying the smell of mud and horse sweat. The sun climbed quickly, illuminating a throng of spectators gathered around a makeshift boxing ring. They had travelled by train from El Paso to Langtry, and they were eagerly awaiting the contest.

John Walsh worked the crowd.

He moved easily among them, a lean man of twenty-five with dirty blonde hair, dust on his boots, and a practiced smile. He had learned at a young age that confidence was mostly a matter of posture and timing. Just short of a swagger, he told himself, because no likes a poser. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, and beneath his coat, pressing against his ribs, hung the leather satchel that held coins, bills, promissory slips, and the occasional gold watch. Anything that could be wagered. John’s hands were quick, his voice calm, and his gaze scanned for new prospects.

“Maher pays as long as a dry summer,” he told potential bettors. “Fitz is the favorite for sure, but Maher could surprise the world.”

He said it casually, like something he might not believe. That was the trick. Men trusted doubt more than certainty. Some of them laughed, shaking their heads. Others leaned in closer, smelling opportunity the way vultures smell death. Walsh gave Maher odds so generous that they bordered on insult, and the crowd responded exactly as he knew they would. Money flowed toward the underdog like water downhill, pooling fast and deep.

That was the plan, and Judge Roy Bean had calculated it perfectly.

Walsh had quickly learned about the judge’s shrewdness when he had drifted into Langtry at age nineteen, half-starved, riding a stolen mule whose ribs showed through its hide. Abandoned in Detroit at 12 years old, he had lived by his wits in the poor Irish neighborhood of Corktown. He sold matches and newspapers to survive, sleeping in whatever empty building or alcove he could find. Finally, with no prospects, he jumped a freight train heading west. He drifted between towns and jobs, often getting into trouble for theft. When he reached Langtry, he was at his lowest point, desperate for a new beginning.

He remembered the way the town first appeared to him, a cluster of buildings crouched in the desert along the Southern Pacific tracks, miles away from any other settlement. The Jersey Lilly Saloon stood at its center, leaning slightly. It was there that the legendary Roy Bean held court with his reputation as a “hanging judge.” He had famously called himself “the Only Law West of the Pecos,” a phrase the newspapers picked up and spread.

Bean had been sitting on the porch of the saloon that afternoon. He had a grizzled gray beard and a worn black Stetson perched on his head. There was a law book open on his lap, but even then, Walsh suspected it was more for show than reference. The judge watched the boy approach with the lazy interest of a man who had seen everything twice.

“You hungry, boy?” the judge had asked.

Walsh had nodded, too tired to lie, too proud to beg.

Bean fed him, then put him to work with the horses. He made it clear from the start: steal from me and I’ll hang you, steal for me and I’ll protect you. It wasn’t said cruelly or kindly. It was simply the truth, a verdict already reached.

Walsh mucked stalls until his arms ached and his back screamed. He hauled water under a Texas sun that seemed to burn him to the bone. He learned the smells of the stable and the moods of the horses. He also learned the rhythm of Langtry’s rough justice, listening from the doorway as Bean held court, watching men argue for their lives or their money under a mounted bear skin and a framed photograph of the famous English actress, Lillie Langtry.

Walsh never understood the judge’s infatuation with the British woman. He’d probably never meet her, and she certainly didn’t care about him. He claimed he had seen a photo of her in a magazine, and she embodied all his ideals of femininity and culture. Then again, since the town was named after George Langtry, an engineer who supervised Chinese labor for the railroad, maybe the judge just linked the last names in his mind. Either way, Walsh figured it was part of Bean’s calculated mystique, along with the “hanging judge” label even though he’d never executed a man.

Over time, Bean sent him on small errands, then longer ones with packages carried by horse to Del Rio, Uvalde, even San Antonio 200 miles away. Walsh knew that the bags could be sent by rail, and that Bean was simply testing him. A courier had to be trusted. He had to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut. Walsh learned which roads to avoid, which men to ride past without slowing, which questions not to ask.

He learned that reputation traveled faster than a horse, and that his was tied forever to Bean’s. People knew not to trouble John Walsh. If they did, they would answer to the Only Law West of the Pecos.

Now, standing amidst the spectators at the prizefight, the weight of the money satchel pulled at his shoulder, a physical reminder of how much trust rested on him, and how easily it could tip one way or another.

The crowd thickened as the hour approached. Sportswriters in stiff collars jotted notes, already shaping tomorrow’s headlines. Gamblers argued odds until their voices grew raw. Somewhere upriver, Texas Rangers fumed, unable to touch what happened on Mexican sand. Bean had chosen the place perfectly. It was just across the border and out of reach. He knew that Mexican authorities, if they even cared to come, would be delayed by distance in this remote stretch of the desert.

Walsh finished a final transaction with a cattleman from El Paso, then stepped aside to count. The sum dwarfed anything he’d ever carried. Enough to disappear, to buy land and anonymity.

That very thought had been creeping into his mind for weeks. Roy Bean treated him well, but Walsh knew the truth. He was a useful thing. Trusted, yes. Protected, yes. But loved? Maybe, in Bean’s rough way, but Walsh knew he would always be subservient, an extension of another man’s will. It had been grating on him.

Suddenly, the fighters entered the ring to a roar that echoed off the canyon walls. Fitzsimmons looked calm, coiled like wire, his eyes steady. Maher, broader and heavier, was already soaked in sweat, perhaps aware that he carried the hopes of every longshot gambler in the crowd. Walsh felt a flicker of sympathy for the fellow Irishman.

The bell rang and people began shouting encouragement to their favored fighters.

95 seconds later it was over.

Fitzsimmons’ rock-hard punch landed clean under Maher’s jaw, collapsing him like a toppled statue, his head hitting the packed sand with a finality that quieted the crowd for an instant. Fitzsimmons stepped back, his arms raised in triumph, while Maher remained motionless on the ground.

Then chaos erupted. “This fight was rigged!” yelled the gamblers who’d believed in miracles. Others jeered, some cursed, and some stared as if they’d just awoken from a dream.

Walsh stood still, watching a medic kneel beside Maher. Even though Bean had just hit the jackpot, disappointment washed through him. After all the maneuvering, bribing, and scheming to organize the fight, it had ended as suddenly as a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind. That was the world in a nutshell, Walsh thought.

By late afternoon, he’d finished collecting all the wagers, invoking Bean’s name to men who were reluctant to pay. The satchel was almost obscene with its weight. Bean would be richer than ever. Langtry would buzz for years on this event alone. The judge’s legend would grow, fed by exaggeration and envy, while Walsh would remain a footnote.

He mounted his horse as the sun dipped west. But instead of riding north towards Langtry, he headed south. No one stopped him. Why would they? He was Judge Bean’s man.

He rode along the river, keeping to the low ground where tracks were more concealed. The farther he went, the more the satchel spoke to him. Not with words but with possibility. Each mile put distance between the life he’d been given and the one he had decided to claim for himself.

By nightfall he reached Boquillas del Carmen, a small village clinging to the banks on the Mexican side. He paid cash for a room without giving his name. Its walls were bare, its bed narrow, and it smelled heavily of dust. Walsh barred the door with his saddle, then sat on the mattress and untied the satchel, spreading out its contents. It was more money than he’d expected. With this, he could vanish into Mexico and be nobody’s man but his own.

He lay down with the bag under his head, one arm looped through the strap, telling himself he would sleep lightly and awaken at the slightest sound. But he was restless, surprised at how much his conscience bothered him. He told himself that what he’d done was no different than what Bean had done all his life. He was just seizing his chance when it came. Then he recalled a quote from Mark Twain he’d heard a man once tell him: “A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory.”

He tossed and turned until sleep descended harder than he expected.

He dreamed of the Rio Grande rising without warning and washing everything away. All the money and players, the boxing ring, even the border itself. Then he dreamed of Judge Bean sitting in his chair without a face, the law book open to blank pages.

He was torn from sleep as the door to his room burst inward. Rough hands seized him. He reached for the satchel by instinct, even as someone twisted his arm behind him.

“Don’t,” one of them said quietly. “Ain’t no call for that.”

Walsh recognized all three men as Bean’s employees. He had worked alongside them and ridden with them. They didn’t strike him or curse at him. They simply moved with the quiet efficiency of men following orders.

They rode north under a full moon. Walsh watched the silvery river slide past and thought about how close he’d come. Another hour, another day, another hundred miles south, and he might have outrun his old life. The men didn’t speak to him, giving no explanations. They didn’t have to. Langtry pulled at them like gravity. Judge Bean always knew where his people were. That was the real law, a presence that followed you even when you tried to cross a border.

Langtry seemed smaller in the early light of dawn. The Jersey Lilly leaned the same way it always had, like it might collapse any minute. Bean sat inside at his massive mahogany desk, his law book closed, his reading glasses low on his nose. The men brought Walsh to stand before him, then laid the satchel open on the desk, its riches spilling out as if it were a cornucopia.

For a moment, Walsh considered speaking up for himself. He would lay out the justification he’d rehearsed on the ride back. A man only gets so many chances; he must seize them when he can. Surely the wily old man would understand that brand of conniving. But as he looked at the judge, it all drained away. This was the man who’d fed him, trusted him, and pulled him up from rock bottom.

“I’m sorry,” Walsh said quietly. “I have no real excuse. I just fell prey to some grand dreams I’ve never had before. I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit. Even hanging. I deserve it.”

He waited for the sentence. He waited for the rope.

Bean studied him for a long time. The room was silent except for the distant nickering of horses.

Finally, the judge spoke.

“Go muck the stalls.”

Walsh blinked.

“You heard me,” Bean said. “You’re starting over. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust you again. Just get your ass back to work.”

That was it. No lecture. No sentence. No gallows.

Walsh felt weak with relief. Shame burned hot in his chest, but beneath it ran something else. A gratitude that was both fierce and painful. He turned and walked out toward the stables, the sun rising behind him, the desert still ancient and indifferent.

The stable door creaked as he pushed it open. The familiar smell embraced him, a mixture of manure, hay, and warm animal breath. Horses shifted in their stalls, their ears flicking, their eyes rolling toward him with the dim patience of creatures who understood work and routine but not ambition.

He took up a shovel and began his toil, sweat gathering quickly. As he worked, he felt something settle inside him, a kind of grounding. This was how he had begun, by doing what was set before him and doing it well. No matter how long it took, he vowed to return to a place of respect, if not in Bean’s eyes, at least in his own.

Outside, Langtry continued to awaken. A door opened. A voice called out. Somewhere up the hill, Judge Roy Bean took his morning coffee and sat on the porch of his saloon, the world lining up before him as it always did.

Walsh kept shoveling until any thoughts of what lay ahead disappeared. The future could wait. Right now, there was only the task before him. Right now, there was still breath in his lungs.

Simply being here and working was a grace he hadn’t earned.

January 22, 2026May 25, 2026 by krinvan Tags: boxing, fiction, gambling, judge-roy-bean, mexico, old-west, prizefight, short-story, texas 2 Comments