In a small room at Palm Garden nursing home in Sun City Center, two souls draw closer.
The doctor waited in the emergency room for the crush of patients to come.
"I'm no Mary Poppins," Amy Slone says.
If Poppins was obsessive-compulsive about a holiday, it would be Christmas. Slone hates Christmas. She has self-diagnosed OHD — Obsessive Halloween Disorder. Months before Halloween, she begins turning her Gulfport home — front to back, top to bottom — into …
ST. PETERSBURG — In December, Brad Stigleman propped his battered old canoe behind his in-laws' home in Feather Sound, right beside a pond perfect for fishing.
He thought it'd be safe there.
Merl Reagle was a breakfast guy.
Everybody thinks of him as a word guy, which he certainly was, but the word was coffee. Decaf. Merl didn't require artificial stimulants. His mind worked, near as I could tell, with the relentlessness of a hydroelectric dam. He transformed the torrent of modern culture into …
The ceilings were low. The carpet, yellow shag. The windows were outdated. But the house opened out to the water, and that was all that mattered.
All year, I watched our son plan his escape.
Movie endings aren't what they used to be.
The news jumped out at me from Twitter. I stared for several seconds in disbelief.
We went to brunch on Father's Day, me and my parents, who had driven over from West Palm Beach. We'd gone to a nicer restaurant than usual, and my father had let me order oysters even though he thinks they're gross.
It's so quiet in the van, rain is all we hear on the two-hour drive to Gainesville. My friend has let me tag along with her family to tour the University of Florida. No one is doing much to break the awkward silence.
"Cheetos?" my friend asks at one point.
A half-hour passes.
"We have granola bars, …
A worker struggles to lift the steel vault, then position it over a hole in the lawn behind a country church. • Three of us watch as he lowers the remains of Stewart Fletcher Currin, my closest childhood friend, into the ground. • My girlfriend takes my elbow. "Now you have closure," she …
Florida literature has a longer history than you may think.
"Literary" is probably not the first adjective that comes to mind when you think of Florida.
Fred Rogers' sweater is a hue Crayola might call Forest Green, or maybe Aquamarine, or maybe Illuminating Emerald. He sketches a simple rainbow on an easel in his modest TV living room, the one decorated like childhood, and turns to the camera.
Call them a creatively incestuous bunch of filmmakers, often working on each other's movies, sometimes helping each other to distribute their macabre artistry. Grisly loves company. Especially in Florida.
TAMPA — Charlene Cardona used to be addicted, skimming the classified ads for time and place, rising early nearly every Saturday to make someone else's junk her treasure.
Spindly legs dangle from the frame of my glasses. A black body rappels down a silk filament, itsy-bitsy arachnid feet tickling my nose.
ICHETUCKNEE SPRINGS STATE PARK — In the summer of 1539, the conquistador Hernando de Soto and several hundred men lumbered up the Florida peninsula and stopped by this spring-fed river to rest.
They started unlocking the love in June, after the bridge collapsed and the locals complained and the city's leaders said no more.