Jan/Feb 2002

e c l e c t i c a
s p o t l i g h t
a u t h o r


Duncan White

(These are excerpts—click on the title to view the whole piece!)


Then Molly came in. She was a large tabby with big black spots. The spots looked like bruises. She walked across the floor. Then she stopped. She looked at me. I looked back. She looked like a cat that had just killed a rat.

Flight Path

One night Anne cooked. She cooked fish. She cooked it just for me. The two of us sat and ate together. And that fish was good.

Not Seeing

"You have to watch out. It's possible to stop seeing things," she said. "To stop seeing things?" I said. She nodded. And sipped her wine. Then she looked down at herself. She still had her coat on. She stood up. Pulled it off. And hung it on the hook.