Writer Karene Horst shares her twisted perspective on relationships and the scars they leave behind with the first chapter of her novel moving men.
A white woman of privilege complaining that a BLACK man sexually harassed her? I’d read To Kill A Mockingbird. … I was a bleeding heart liberal. The thought of accusing him, even to just my employer, horrified me.
by Karene Horst, contributing editor – Every morning it hurts to get out of bed. My back aches. My lips scrape against each other, dry and chapped. After my first few limping steps I stumble into the bathroom, bumping my hip against the door jam. Ouch! This is 56. The […]
by Karene Horst, contributing editor – I started eating my canned soup back in February. It’s an annual thing, clearing out my stockpile I’m supposed to maintain for that massive earthquake allegedly poised to level California or sink it into the Pacific. As the emergency response folks suggest, I’m usually […]
by Karene Horst, contributing editor – I strolled through my dad’s thick tangle of a backyard for the customary tour during my last visit. The quarter-acre plot glowed vibrantly green now the rains had returned to So Cal: potted baby king palms, succulent jades, and assorted sprouting flotsam my father dug […]
by Karene Horst, contributing editor – Single yet again for another Valentine’s Day, my thoughts turn as usual to chocolate. No one sends me flowers. Cards kill trees unnecessarily. Instead, I’m baking myself and my co-workers a sugary concoction of chocolate, melted caramel, cream cheese frosting and more chocolate. Valentine’s Day used […]
By Karene Horst, contributing editor – He introduced himself because he saw my whitewater kayak and mountain bike strapped to my car roof racks. I hadn’t brushed my teeth or my hair. I tugged at the grungy T-shirt I’d worn to bed the night before. It was early and my roommate […]
By Karene Horst, contributing editor – As a child I would daydream and fidget every Sunday morning while sitting, kneeling or standing in the pew at St. Monica’s with Mother and my five brothers. Mother would cradle the youngest in the crook of one arm while swatting and grabbing at […]