The Crossing

The strong winds are driving the angry surf against the shoreline as I sit in the compound waiting for a late ferry.  Memories of my life on Grand Manan Island remind me that late-fall crossings are absolutely unpredictable.  I am not in control. My stomach does a...

Angel . . . a friend in the making.

Her name is Angel. She works the night shift at a certain coffee shop in town. The patrons stand, zombie-like, in line, one behind the other, in the early morning, pre-coffee stupor. And as they stand there, for lack of intellectual stimulation, they complain about...