They've been pretty scarce around here, if by "here", we mean the blog. In real life, the stories are plentiful. There's the short story class I'm doing at Hugo House, the stacks and stacks of little stories that my photo prints are making these days, the obsessive story of a mix CD I just can't seem to finish, and of course, with Salinger's death, those few gorgeous devastating stories he wrote and actually let us read.
It was a pretty summer day the last time I picked up Nine Stories. I was happy in an unhappy way, on a picnic under trees with the water and birds of prey nearby. We walked back to the car under shade, and I hoped there would be so many more days like that, but there weren't.