A lot of people (okay, maybe only a few) have asked when I started writing. The easiest answer is: I always have. When I was a little kid, I loved making up silly stories. My parents suggested I write them down. Once I saw them on paper, I thought they were ridiculous - so I learned to edit. I started looking for words that fit better, worked better. I’ve always loved reading. When I was about five or six, I lived for presidential biographies. Yes...odd child. Once I discovered the library, I moved on to biographies of famous composers and historical figures. Mom was an artist, so I had access to lots of books about art and artists. Dad read all sorts of weird stuff, so I dug into that too. I have to credit the old man for my lifelong love of Conan Doyle, although to this day, I’ve never understood his fascination with Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings . I can appreciate the work itself, but the story always struck me as a little too “by the numbers.” By age ten, I’d discovered Stephen...
The middle of April seemed as good a time as any for Halfred Weston to get started on his little backyard garden. The weather was just right. Not too cold, not too wet. Good time to get the soil turned and fertilized. For years, he'd been growing the same things; tomatoes, a variety of peppers, and occasionally some beans. Those didn't always seem to take. He tried growing carrots too, but between the rabbits and moles, he'd all but given up. He was keen to try the new fertilizer ol' Tony down at the garden supply store had been talking about. It was supposed to be free of toxic chemicals and safe for pets and humans. Some kind of 'biologic agent' was supposed to make it work better. Safe for families, safe for the earth was its catchphrase. Just the kind of thing that made a person feel quietly responsible just for using it. Halfred had been in the garden most of the afternoon. Nothing serious. Just turning soil, pulling a few stubborn weeds. He had dumped ...