Who’d have thought an old relic could extinguish a war? — Tam clutched his heavy, woolen cloak against the morning chill and urged his horse to a faster pace. Winter had been loath to leave. She’d dug her claws deep in the iron-hard ground and clutched the shivering landscape to her icy breast. …

You gotta learn ta read the signs — Life in Three Forks flows along at its own pace. Things change slow, if at all. An’ most times, not fer the better. The ol’ Sentinel Oak’s stood at the gate a’ Kinross Farms long as anyone c’n remember. Longer prob’ly. …

Labels and names — sometimes none of them smell sweet — Dear God, I haven’t changed; Not one iota in two heart-beats since you last drew breath; It still is me, With those same faults I had before you ‘knew’, With those same dreams, And, yes, with that same longing to be heard and understood and seen; Okay, scratch ‘understood’, Even…

Irreverent and non-scholarly look at an endangered and elusive species — Poor, mad Ophelia sinking in the depths of depression is an apt analogy for the life of many a wanna-be online writer. Especially viewed through the lens of Shakespeare’s ‘Seven Ages of Man’, with a few notable differences. Jacques’ monologue in Act II Scene VII of William Shakespeare’s “As You…

Welcome to the Inn — please, feel free to stay forever — We’d been driving all day. Our first vacation together in three years and we were determined to make the most of it. “For the kids,” we told ourselves. Winding, single-lanes through dense, shaded forests gave way to goat-tracks edging the top of rugged sea cliffs. Picturesque as all hell but…

We are all weavers in our own way — of words, of life. — The shuttle flies back and forth across the warp. Ticking, clicking, untiring, unceasing it weaves the fabric of life on the Loom of Time. The blind muse dips her hand into the basket at her feet and gathers threads for the ever-changing tapestry. The cosmos wheels and spins around her…

This one’s just messing with me — I stare at the blank page before me, willing it to come to life. Willing an interesting character to fill the empty space. Or just stroll across it. Any character. Please. But all that meets my desperate gaze is the page. Disembodied Voice: “Have you been helped yet, dear?” Me: “Uh…”…

You don’t have to be a new broom to clean up big-time — 6:03 A.M. The disused basement room was cool and dry. Dim light filtered though the narrow slats of the ventilation louvers high on the north wall, casting barred shadows across the room. The collector had chosen it for the north light — artists’ light. …

It takes strength and determination to change. — Wherever she was, it was almost pitch-black. Though a dim light filtered through the membrane wrapped shroud-like around her. A shroud — oh, God, am I dying? Am I already dead? Where am I? Maybe she could make a hole. Let in more light. See where she was… But the…