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Lynda Sexson

Fiction

Winter 1995

Creep, Crop, Cry, Cream

By Lynda Sexson

The trees are rattling. The immediate is merely an emblem of the past, the present is memory’s diary. Do you remember? I remember the leaves. His job, Gramma said, was […]

Fiction

Fall 1980

Turning

By Lynda Sexson

Three elderly ladies, elegantly turned with jewels on their elongated necks, helped one another to hobble from the taxi to the walk. They came toward the house, their white curled […]