- By Edward Clifford
Above the pitted black coast, at the house that looks accidentally built, the floodlights have been left on. The owner is not there. He only comes during the winter, when the waves rise and he can pick his way down the cliff to ride the surf off the reef, some two hundred yards offshore. Now, in summertime, the ocean is sleepy under round, slow swells that gently slap the cliff.
—from “A Breath of Plankton Soup,” Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021)
Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
The very first story I wrote, of which I was really proud, was about a Thanksgiving dinner involving woodland animals of the Hudson Valley (illustrated, of course). But if you want to fast-forward past that one, through the 8th...