Lewis Horne

LEWIS HORN has published stories in many journals, including Colorado Review, The Fiddlehead, Greensboro Review, Missouri Review. Some have been anthologized in Best American Short Stories, Prize Stories: The O. Henry Awards, and in anthologies published by Canadian small presses. He has published the story collection What Do Ducks Do in Winter with Signature Books which has accepted a second collection for publication. He lives is Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada.

Articles

Letters to the Editor

Vision of an Older Faith

Car window turned to shale from sun
burst, the car parked some summer
Sunday there before the church
house. Voices sing: “Spirit

Zina’s Version

Zina thought: Ha, what now? She peered through her front door window at the old man crossing Lizzy’s backyard. He was skinny as a bunch of sticks, splotchy, and wrinkled as a raisin. His hair…

The Youngest Daughter’s Tale

Three of them are older. None
Grew bold enough in tone and manner
To carry her executive airs.

Double Exposure

The picture gathers from a host of things—
From giggles of remembering, not play
By play but one word lifting from another
Into a rearview record, a happy weather

Basic Training

We were like filings, lifted straight
As though a magnet stiffened up
Our figures like the hair upon
Our closely cropped skulls. But we,

She and He: Alternatives

—Or on summer evenings as the sky
Draws down its light, prodding the question why

They sit in cast-off wicker furniture,
The kids cross-legged as though the lawn made a shore

Fashion Show

Did she think, “Depression,”
As banks collapsed,
Men took to the road, farms
Reclaimed and lost?

The By-pass

If I looked up the road from the irrigation ditch, I could see the church house bumping stiff and dark against the sunset’s blaze. “The old church house/’ people called it now. “The old churchhouse,”…

Water Will

In that first summer before a town was
(Only tents and wagonbeds), they tossed
Pails of water over the sun-scorched canvas.

Childhood Homes

“A crackerbox,” my mother called it,
            Her marriage’s first scene.
My first home, my brother’s, tucked
            Far back for remembering,
The place where she dyed feedsacks
            To curtain the windowscreens.