I was so meek, so insecure. So tentative, I couldn't see everything it kept me from. Everything it kept me from. How am I supposed to be a great author, like Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, when I did not spend my childhood authoring? When my waking moments were not dedicated to creating, composing, writing like they... Continue Reading →
The three stood in a silent circle, gazing down at the sleepy little dog, lingering in the kitchen like night mist before the idyllic rise of the morning blaze. The silence hung like fog on their skin, in their eyes, in their lungs. As empty as ghosts, as overflowing as giddy children. To be such... Continue Reading →
Life changes. A guaranteed constant. Everyone always tells you that it's good. That, while it's sad to leave some places and people behind, whatever comes will be just as good, maybe better. More of life to experience and enjoy. Often times this is subsequently accompanied by an earnest afterthought of cherish the present moments too,... Continue Reading →
She appreciated the company of the rain, the only company she currently had. It was cold and unrelenting, but it was present. The sound of the drops ruptured in waves, at times deafening, at others melodic, drumming against the roofs, streaming off the awnings to crash into the shifting cement below. It seemed to breathe... Continue Reading →
A Study in Crimson Prose 