July 1979 Dragonflies skim above the surface of Young’s Pond, then dart among the tall grasses that grow at its edge. I sit on the ground b...

Summer 1978 By dusk, he’s perched upon his chosen picnic table top, boots planted on the bench. The seat of his jeans scrapes across splint...

The man’s fingers slip beneath the elastic of my waistband. Hairy knuckles graze my skin. I gasp at the touch. “Don’t freak out.” His voice ...

Yesterday was five months to the day that I last visited the local woods in my town . It’s a useless place to cruise during the long Michiga...

In a couple of spectacularly unsuccessful entries a few weeks back I attempted to track the genesis of my acquaintance with Topher, who beca...

I see him first from a distance, against the sunny morning horizon—short and rounded among spear-like trunks shooting toward the sky. Back a...