http://slow.writerscafe.org/tamsengrier The original writings of author tamsen grier en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776021665 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15         After Peety draws his jeans up, I knock the musty old hay off his rear.  He reaches down and pops me on the a*s too, thinking I was only playing.      “Stop, now,” I say, “I’ve gotta get you presentable i.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1168345/ The small town of Pink Hill has experienced a tragedy and scandal involving a young couple that reveals the ugliness of prejudice and collective myopia. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1165559/ Collection of needles, glass-shard wings:you skip around the wall,are called by your various names:mosquito hawk, nephrotomafamily tipuldae,cray (no it’s crane) fly.Gollywhopper, gallinipper.You light on the table,colossus on spindly legs,quivering halteres,balance the sting-like ovipositor.Yo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1163441/ At nine o’clock, when I’ve already had dinner and settled on the couch, a reply from Schwartz pops up in my inbox.      Schyler, how about ten tomorrow?    Early.  All the better to get it over with.  After Bjornstad left I regretted not f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1162875/ My thoughts swirl in my head.  Where should I even begin?  The stalkerish phone calls?  The tattling to Schwartz?  The flagrant disrespect of the inane “Mr. Bjornstad” comment?  I drop my arms from where they are crossed against my chest and prop my hands.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1162754/   I spend half a second too long staring as he sits down, towering out the awkward folding seat.  From the peripheries of my vision, I see a few heads glance backward, following the direction of my gaze.  Chen looks, questions forming on his face, between me and Bjornstad. &nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1162719/ At seven a.m., the brass alarm clock next to my bed rings.  My eyes fly open and I sit bolt upright.  I reach over and silence the clamor.      A dewy light sifts through the curtains.  Hegel is stretched out beside me on the bedspread.  Everything app.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1162463/ He calls me “baby girl,” or “b***h”:the latter when I break up his partiesthat go on all night, never sure whichneighbor called the cops, but suspecting me.Often, when I come home, a woman waitson the porch I share with him.  This duplexbrings us together: me with books,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1162415/ I manage to hide in my office for the rest of the afternoon.  Around four I hear something thunk into the plastic mailbox on the front of my door.  I nearly jump out of my seat at the sound.  I need to go for a run soon, sweat out some of these emotions.  This degree of a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1161757/     “You never responded last night.  I hope you don’t think I was too hard on you.”    Robert settles himself onto the leather chair across from my desk and brings one ankle casually to his knee.  I thunk my purse down on the rug and f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1161627/ When I wake, Hegel is still curled up around my feet.  I must have stirred in the last moments of sleep because he watches me eagerly, his tail thumping against the mattress.  I turn my head and see that my alarm won’t go off for another thirty minutes.  I haven’t .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1161286/ Born during the worst drought in our region’s history,I was nearly three before I saw rain.My mother couldn’t keep me in the house,and Grandmother loaded film in the cameraas I waddled out beneath the fat drops,nacreous pearls consumed by the greedy dust.My body remembers the wonder of t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1161269/ I manage to block out what just happened for the entire stroll across campus.  By the time I reach the parking lot, I can feel my knees wobbling a little more with each step.  By the time I slide behind the wheel of my midnight blue Fiat, my stomach has wound itself into a knot. .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160660/ Virginia Woolf could not have been more wrong when she described the pursuit of knowledge as a simple path from A to Z.   If her character Mr. Ramsay was stuck at Q, then I’m firmly entrenched at E after taking a delightful detour through T, getting mired in the swamp of V, a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160603/ A thinking woman's romance. Professor of Renaissance Literature Schyler Montgomery has more walls up than Troy and a demeanor colder than the 7th circle of hell. But everything is about to change... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160558/ Snow beautifies everything: the arthritic branches, darkened street, dead and dying-back yards.  Helen walks with her hands buried in the pockets of her coat, a man’s bomber jacket left at the inn years ago and never claimed.  Her wool socks are pulled passed her knees; singl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160544/ Clark and Emily’s suite comprises three narrow rooms that stretch the length of the dining room and kitchen on the other side of the wall.  They enter into a comfortable but somewhat crowded bedroom.  The king bed faces a window out onto the front drive.  Emily’s p.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160135/ After a flurry of passing dishes and searching for misplaced serving utensils, all the guests relish the few bites and complement the food to obsequious Mariam.  Sharnice is annoyed that no one seems to know anymore that it is proper to pass dishes to the right, always waiting until c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160129/ At three o’clock the house echoes with the sound of bells.  In the nadir of activity when the guests from the previous night have all gone and no new ones have arrived, the children are allowed to play downstairs.  The innkeeper ties bells to their shoes to avoid losing them .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160128/ At a bed-and-breakfast in Connecticut, the lives of eight guests intertwine during the course of a single, eventful night. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160126/ Lorrie May’s hands are like two fish in the water, passing and dancing around each other in a silky-smooth glide.  The loom chimes as she raises the stop, then crashes back down like something big falling into the sea.  A whale.  The delicate metal tines are like the tee.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160100/ On the hottest afternoons it rains in brief, violent bursts.  Grey clouds may hang in the air all day but the truest indicator of rain is a single cool breeze.  Otto sits by the open window in a lawn chair, waiting for this breeze.  The TV squawks in the corner, glowing with a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160098/     I am seven years old when I find out my Uncle Elton is my daddy.  I live on a road bearing my family’s name.  At the road’s end, where our land meets the highway, my great-grandma Lorrie May lives in a white house where she feeds feral cats off the fr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160094/ The story of the decline of a Louisiana family told through the eyes of Louisa Orillion--a child of incest who has been kept from the outside world. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/tamsengrier/1160085/