pilgrim . poet . ponderer of all things .
It’s a funny thing, not believing in Hell, or an afterlife at all, sometimes. It’s not something I think we can know for sure, this side of death, so I’m in between at the moment. In the midst of The Sorting. Plus, It’s not really something to bring up in polite conversation. Allude to a …
I didn’t choose the darkness; I don’t think it chose me either. I simply found myself in a gradual twilight, at the inevitable turning of the earth away from the day, toward the night. The sun slowly set behind me, the shadows lengthened, a dense fog descended in the chill, and I lost the trail …
The road in the end taking the path the sun had taken, into the western sea, and the moon rising behind you as you stood where ground turned to ocean: no way to your future now but the way your shadow could take walking before you across water, going where shadows go This is …
When the books are folded closed on Christmas Eve, and we try to untangle ourselves from the muddle of competing narratives of a child born in the dirt and pain and hope, and of innocent assertions that maybe Santa lives in your tummy, too. And we leave hanging in the air like baubles, your wonderings …
I am about six years old, maybe younger. I am at the house of the girl a few doors down. The house that always smells of dampness and cigarette smoke; the girl with the Rainbow Brite and Cabbage Patch dolls, the silent older brother, the mother with a perm-slash-mullet, and the father who always …
Earlier this week we had to kill one of our three chickens. Well, I say we, but it was Nathan who did it. Wringing an animal’s neck is not something I’m keen to add to my list of accomplishments just yet. She was attacked the previous morning in the early hours between five and six, …
