“I am a book. Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty from shelves. Steamy and anxious, abused and misused, kissed and cried over, smeared, yellowed, and torn, loved, hated, scorned.… — Lise McClendon Copy Share Image
“Tristan the child had been gone for a long time. He had gone where children go, slipped away into manhood as if he’d never fit into her arms, never cried on her shoulder, never run to her with a skinned knee. He was his own person now, not a child but independent, free to make his own choices — or… — Lise McClendon Copy Share
“Possibility. Was that all that it took to feel alive? Could it be that it wasn’t getting the thing you desire itself but the… — Lise McClendon Copy Share Image
“I am a book. Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty from shelves. Steamy… — Lise McClendon Copy Share Image
