The words from the poem mirrored the scene in front of him.
"Two roads diverged in a wood," he recited aloud.
"Which one should I take," he thought as he stood at the junction of the two paths in front of him leading down the dark forest.
He had come out for a walk to clear his head. He closed his eyes and took a step forward and another and another...
Half an hour later, he stood in front of a giant tree. He looked up into its branches and a large pile of snow fell on him. He grabbed...
#hashtag condo livin.
Last year i bought a tiny orange tree to spruce up my tiny patio. #condolife.
Over the many months, I watered it and moved it around my patio- chasing patches of the much needed sun. #citruslove. #vitamin c #noscurvy #
I noticed that my oranges were closer to the size of grapes. I notices that there was some missing step....Some missing ingredient. They were small. Anemic.
I replanted that orange tree. Watered it. Placed in the sunniest corner of my tiny patio.
Many, many months later. My orange tree produced what looked like clementines.
With great pride...
“Pob lwc.” the elder of Saint Joseph’s had wished me, after his strange warning. I presumed he meant for my first Mass to be held, as traditional, at Midnight on Christmas Eve. It went well, the service, with a fuller than expected attendance, to see the ‘new man’, I presumed.
Later, sat still in just the candle light, I sighed, thinking I’d found a final home. It was then that the Bwgan Fawr sighed too. A man of middling years, he seemed, from one of the middling centuries, but as translucent as chip paper fat.
He pointed at the great...
”Beware the Bwgan Fawr.” the old Vicar sighed. “Every chapel has to have its ‘Ysbryd capel’…”
“Its chapel ghost?” the younger clergyman replied. His pronunciation was still more ‘gog’, more Northern, than the man he was replacing felt comfortable with. Too… foreign. If such a phrase could be used for a fellow Welshman.
A shame, his body was found the morning after his first Midnight Mass. Just outside the chapel door, lying as if it had carried a great weight across the threshold, and then collapsed with the release of his burden. A heart attack, they said. Strange in someone...
I haven’t had any nightmares since my sister was locked up. Now I have it all because I killed him. But it was all a mistake.
The air around me turned into ice. My body felt as though it was weighted by meteorites. I lifted my throbbing head as my eyes trailed around my surroundings: a stone-cold room with fluorescent lights that smelled like sadness. I tried wiggling my hands, only being greeted by a rustle of platinum chains. This does not look like Washington. Where am I? Who would capture me? I did nothing wrong. Not since him.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made of.” Smith quipped. “The Tempest. Act four…”
“…Scene one. And it’s ‘on’ not ‘of’.” I retorted. “It continues. And our little life is rounded with a sleep.”
Smith snorted. “Ever the pessimist. And yet.” He paused for effect. “I propose to travel forward in Time by one second.”
“Smith, you can’t. Except by the traditional route. Which just takes one second to do. Except we are moving in Space-Time. Not just Time. Only light can do that without feeling the time pass.”
Smith shrugged. I tried to explain. “The Earth spins 460m/s....
Once upon a time there was a bug who wanted to live on my finger. I called the little fella over and asked him to stay a while. This all started when my father said to never touch a big because it might bite you. After he died, I decided to ask bugs to come over and sit for anhile. It made it easier to think about my sorrow. I named the different bugs, every single one of them. One bugs name was idiot. He sat there as I picked off a wing. The other wing was still there. It...