by Ian Stansel
Away from the coast, the sound of the surf persisted in her ears. It was midmorning in Marin County, California. A Saturday. Beneath Lena’s body, Frank’s truck exhaled its guttural breaths. Cresting a ridge, Lena faced the familiar sight of overlapping hills, miles of them, already losing their springtime green, turning golden, and she wondered a moment about the vanished histories lingering invisibly in their valleys. She opened her window, breathed in the cool morning air, and caught the scent of anise. She decided then that she would get some lunch, take it out to the new barn, and spend the afternoon with her horses. Bring them some carrots, too, some apples. Lead them to the pasture and slip off their halters. Let them run.
About the Author
Ian Stansel’s story collection, Everybody’s Irish, was a finalist for the PEN/Bingham Prize for debut fiction. His writing has appeared in Ploughshares, Salon, and elsewhere. He has an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and teaches creative writing at the University of Louisville. He lives in Louisville, Kentucky.
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