Tag: the Quarry

far from the farmhouse

Published by ryn on 2 January 2011

he rarely went running. he tended more to quiet, to calm, to cunning. to cool. he was warm now. he worked to find and feel the ground, fend off feeling far afool. he’d bent his bolt to branch-beneath, night grown on wide;…

he made haste

Published by ryn on 11 January 2010

when we peeled the wallpaper back, we found the old man’s story. he’d written it there, inked in tiny letters, a record of his time as what he called the Quarry. there was little context: no dates, no places, no last names–only…