Franz Kafka once said, “A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.” Hence I endeavor to not be one of those.
Franz Kafka once said, “A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.” Hence I endeavor to not be one of those.
The silence after the battle is won
Reaches out to comfort my weary heart
Peace, peace, peace, my sweet home sings over me
Do I wake or dream? Dare not close my eyes
Please, convince me sweet silence is real
I struggle to believe war is no more
Imaginary knives against my throat,
Blood runs in my eyes, sword scrapes against sword,
But only in my mind do I hear it
The throb of the earth anchors me...
There are no words to describe
The ache inside me
I long — how I long! — to go home
Lost in the fog of exile
I’ve dreamt every day
Of escape, and now the fog clears
In the distance I can see
My dreams are alive
Waiting for my arrival, they breathe
I hold my breath, stuck in exile
The hours tick by
Freedom draws near, but is it real?
The break of day — is it here?
Blinking blurry eyes
Afraid I...
Mr. Gideon Grale was not, as you might expect, a prodigy of any sort. His cheap coke-bottle glasses, tousled hair, and calm demeanor might hint otherwise, if you didn’t know him.
And I knew him. Actually, I loved him, but not for his lacking skills of accounting (his official profession), or his amateur skills at detecting (much less official than the former).
No, I loved Gideon Grale for his ...
Gracie took a long, deep breath and forced herself to totter into the pet store. Why couldn’t she stop her hands from shaking? A fish. A pet fish, Gracie. This shouldn’t be such a huge deal.
But it was.
As she found herself staring at swirls of vibrant tetras and serene angel fish, she couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in her stomach. Whichever one of those beautiful creatures came home with h...