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Christopher Locke, when he’s not writing or playing with his two daughters, can be found in his kitchen tossing smoked sea salt into his monkfish chowder or watching his molten chocolate cakes bloom in the oven. Don’t even get him started on wine.
There were strange hands on me. Some were small and cold; others seemed large and rough and smelled of sawdust and cinnamon. It was my third time at the new church, but I’d seen nothing like this before. The hands belonged to male church elders, who were encircling me in front of the entire congregation.
April 2007I hated my parents’ goats. I hated them because they were stupid and always looked at me as if it were for the first time. And that lack of recognition never changed, from the day they arrived until the night they saved my life.
September 2002Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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