Keith Donohue

He put his life on hold as he waited for his life to begin.

The flickering candlelight conspired with the silence, and we only interrupted each other__ reading to share a casual delight.

I followed her into the library. The pale light from our chamber below dissipated in the room, but I could still make out _ my heart leapt at the sight _ row after row, shelf above shelf, floor to ceiling, a city of books. Speck turned to me and asked, Now, what shall we read first?

Write it down, boy. If you come across a passage in your reading that you__ like to remember, write it down in your little book; then you can read it again, memorize it, and have it whenever you wish.

Everybody is on something these days. It's a racket. Overprescribing, masking the problem.

October proved a riot a riot to the senses and climaxed those giddy last weeks before Halloween.

It's only a story.' As if such words made it less real. But I did not believe him even then, for stories were written down, and the words on the page were proof enough. Fixed and permanent in time, the words, if anything, made the people and places more real than the everchanging world.