He had climbed the steep Acropolis, seeking Athena Parthenos (the virgin), every time work or pleasure or strange fates called him to Athens. Yet today he paused by the Temple of Dionysis, only about a third of the way up the olive treed slope. One of the several custodians, some in plastic and metal cells, others, like this young lady beneath whatever shade the Gods (and strategic umbrellas) could provide. Something about her effortless attention, seeing all who paused or passed, while seemingly merged into a thick hard back, caught his attention.
She sat, regally, letting the Sun and people...
The water was clear. What? Sorry! The helicopter… the heli… ok?… can you hear me now?
No… I checked all the buildings… Personally. There's no sign… Yes, they're here now. Some are sweeping the island…
… the Coast guard were…er… surprised when I explained why we were all here…
No, they finally got what we were doing. I even managed to hand out a few brochures… Yeah, assuming we don't get bad press from today you might have a fe…
Sorry. Yes. Not the time… No, everything went according to the script. People slowly "disappearing" into the hidden room… No,...
His apology was not the thing she'd expected when she checked her phone in the morning. With one eye she stared at the screen and then rolled to her belly and pulled the phone to the tip of her nose as she tried to focus.
"I shouldn't have done any of that, I can't stop thinking about it."
She patted her hands over the bedcovers, fumbling through folds until she found her glasses and pressed them to her face.
"I can't stop thinking about it either," she replied, "But I liked it. It was exactly what I wanted."
His reply...
He opened the letter from his cousin, reluctantly breaking open the blue air-mail envelope. Who uses old-fashioned snail mail these days? It was from Cat, of course. His good-for-nothing lay-a-bout drop=out relative who had adopted a ridiculous animal name and gone off to live on an remote island in the West Indies. Practically a desert island. No email there, of course.
Meanwhile, people like himself, sensible people with ambitions and mortgages, had to eke out a living in London, or Sydney, or Rome. Wherever he could. And that is hard when you are a classical musician - a violinist -...
"Don't you realize you can make a cake WITHOUT any the products of my femininity?" asked the chicken. She fluffed her feathers defiantly, shouting over the cars that zoomed mere inches from where she had taken her stance. "That is that last time anyone takes my eggs! I will NOT provide my children for your tasty treats!" She glared at the little girl.
Darla stared at the hefty bird. She adjusted her apron, dusting off some flour with one gloved hand. "I needed eggs for my mother's birthday cake!" she protested. Darting a glance at the heavy traffic, she...
We were on a quest to find the Black Rose. It was the only thing which could be used to defeat Francis.
Cold, hungry, and lost in the forest, we stopped for some rest.
"Marchiel, what's our plan?". Miriam asked me.
"At first light, we travel to Moundenchow. I know someone there who can help us. Get some rest.", I answered
Dawn rose, and we were on our way to Moundenchow.
We met my friend at a tavern, and he directed us to the mantle above the fireplace. There it was. The Black Rose. It had been secreted in this...
I couldn't sleep with her next to me. I couldn't sleep anywhere as matter of fact. To watch someone become lost in their on ways and forget the ways of others. I decided to go for a walk just to clear my head. I come to the park see a bum sleeping under the funny pages. I decided to part ways with my jack. I feel the night's chilly embrace. I walk back home hoping I can forgive her betrayal. sigh
The warm breeze touched her face, sparking memories of his fingertips and how they would brush her hair from her eyes in their moments of tenderness. She remained standing still, her eyes closed, for some time.
Eventually she opened them and looked down the grassy hill to the town below, the tall ships in the harbour, the people bustling on the docks. He was there. Somewhere.
She could see his ship off in the distance, it's distinctive sails billowing in the wind. Glancing back down at the dock she wondered when others would spot it.
After what seemed like an...
Wanted. Crib. Last one sold prematurely.
Laugharne - pronounced "Laaarnn" to rhyme with yarn, but rolled out a little further - at night, with the graveyard gently graced by the occasional working street light and our torches. Us searching for interesting stories told on the tombs and plaques of the interred locals, who at times had meant something to the small church community that regularly overflowed the tiny, overgrown car park. My wife spooked at times by sounds and smells of Rectory Barn farm next door. We share imaginings of ages past, whispered in chiseled words on stone. This one died young. That one, an alderman,...