It's summer, and the summer issue of the Remington Review is out.
It includes (on page 6) my short story "The Broken Hallelujah," describing a stolen moment on a summer morning on a tributary of the Russian River, listening to the Emperor Concerto—a song without words, since the words have been taken away from Livvy and she longs for the days back home in the house she grew up in, her father's big Random House Dictionary open to "a handful of chance words—today maybe sanctum, sampan, samsara, sand-blind," while he types Sunday letters on a typewriter with the "e" and "g" out of alignment. Strange stuff for nostalgia, maybe, but Livvy had defined herself by words, and she has hung her hopes on Leonard Cohen's quiet moment of redemptive song,
There's a blaze of light
In every word
image: Claude Monet, The Seine River
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