Tag: Ann Howells

The Widower by Ann Howells

The television speaks in tongues. He sits alone, black suit, tie slightly loosened: through the archway, carnival atmosphere vibrates the dining room: bits of conversation float You remember Robey, she’s the one … table bows under stuffed ham, squash casserole, fried oysters, spoonbread, inevitable…

At Wildwood Beach by Ann Howells

It’s summer. Our dusty orb revolves slowly on its axis, angled into sunslant for maximum absorption; its thin, dark skin blisters and cracks. All day I stand idle, waiting once again for magic to tumble into my life–the mythical poor fisher who nets a…

It’s all in how you look at it, really by Ann Howells

I mean, a thistle among roses appears a rude thing, slow, cloddish country cousin who visits, whose awkward manners do not fit–you apologize, make excuses, feel mild embarrassment.  Then, place that same thistle atop a peck of turnips. No longer simple produce, it becomes…