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The author amid mining ruins, The

San Pedro River, Arizona

Photo by Melanie Norton

                               

by Howard Petote                 Post # 16                      April 23, 2019

 

                             

 

Brooks

 

 

 

Hiking Sedona, the Grand Canyon and the San Pedro River, 

including a visit with my cousin in Tucson, our recent vacation in

Arizona was a success. The last time I visited—incredibly, 30 years ago this month—was a much different experience. Hoping to explore countless wild areas of the southwest, I became ill in New Mexico, and finally turned my truck around just west of Casa

Grande, Arizona.

 

 

​Wabash High School in

warmer weather. Wabash,

Indiana.

​by Howard Petote                Post # 17               February 20, 2023

 

 

                    The Angel of Pleiku, Scene Three

 

 

Once on Colerain, Arlene hits the gas. Her speedometer needle

flutters a few seconds, then shoots past forty. It's a straight shot

from here, but the street, bound by snowbanks, remains icy. She's 

late because Dan left late—of all mornings his Pontiac wouldn't

start, and she had to jump the battery. Despite the storm, or any

other excuse, she's due for a warning. Trained like dogs, everyone

is expected to make the eight o'clock bell.

E

 

by Howard Petote                 Post # 18                     April 26, 2023

 

The Angel of Pleiku and Our Hidden Wounds

 

 

"And this, is this from a bump, too?" She touches his lip with her finger, but he doesn't answer—he raises his hand to hers and gently traps it against her cheek. He leans into her palm, his mouth quivering—trying not to cry. "Life is tricky, isn't it, George?"

 

"Yes, Ma'am."

An abandoned swing set,

southern Illinois. (Upon 

returning a few weeks later,

there was no sign of it.)

                               

by Howard Petote                 Post # 19                 February 1, 2025

 

                             

 The Lines That Bind

 

 

 

Emitting dim, yellow light, the phonebooth stands deserted on its

corner with Market and Cass. In the early morning stillness, the car door shuts with a thud, and then the only sounds are a buzz-

ing street lamp and the scuffing of her shoes. She enters the booth, leans against the glass and picks up the handpiece. Dropping a dime into the slot, she hears the tone and dials 411.

 

"Directory assistance—city and state, please?"

 

 

 

 

 

Coming into the city, as seen

from Front Street: Binghamton,

New York

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