Fear cannot take hope only hide it. When fear leaves, the hope is still there, gleaming brighter for you to see.
The next few decades were hard on him. In his brother’s castle, his new body had been about eight feet long. On Earth, he was barely eight inches. He became used to his new legs as soon as possible, but it didn’t matter. He could race away from humans, but there were always more. And… Continue reading Theraphose: An Origin Part 2 of 3
“Theraphose!” The melodious voice rang down the hallway, catching in his ear and making him turn. The tall lanky blond man smiled warmly at his younger sister and embraced her as she reached him. “Attalla! I’ve missed you. How do you fare?” His sister pulled away, brushed her dark hair away from her face and… Continue reading Theraphose: An Origin Part 1 of 3
I feel like I’ve been silent longer than a week, but I have not. Thanks for your continued readership. For your reading pleasure today, a poem inspired by a guitarist in my favorite band. He steps on stage, unaware Of the affect of his music on my soul. His fingers caress the strings, bring forth… Continue reading The Guitarist
This story was inspired by the people who like to predict the Rapture and by the fact that I had to take my cat Hazel to the Animal Emergency Clinic at 1:00 AM on May 21, 2011 a day that was toted as the Rapture. It started harmlessly. One lone voice on the radio warning… Continue reading Petocalypse
This is long and may be depressing. If you read it thank you, if not, I understand. It is non fiction. I was going to post this in a widow’s page on Facebook, then couldn’t as someone else had just posted something I felt was in direct contradiction to what I am trying to get… Continue reading Jason
Sixteen year old Sally paused for a moment, looked down the road and clutched at the plastic container full of food in her arms. The half full moon made it a dark night. It always seemed darker when she crossed this bridge. Her boyfriend Greg lived on one side of Old Cross Bridge and she… Continue reading Old Cross Bridge
The wedge sits on the plate unadorned by distractions, such as over sweet chocolate syrup or powered sugar. Plain, dark, slightly shiny on top, sides rough where the knife separated it from the rest of the torte. The end shares the slight sheen of the top, but only a bit. The wedge teases the fork,… Continue reading Naked Chocolate Torte