When darkness sifts from the air like fine soft soot and light spreads slowly out of the east then all but the most wretched of humankind rally.
John, as must all authors, takes on dawn, this time in THE INFINITIES.
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SHAPESHIFTER SHIFTING SHAPE #art #folklorethursday pic.twitter.com/z0ZfJ5zHyR
cottage sitting in the center of the clearing. Yes, it’s there, as she said. Is it really your salvation? Do you dare hope? You peel yourself from the treeline, drop to the ground, and crawl. You reach the cottage door, push at it. It creaks open. A candle. There she is. You die.
take in air with a shuddering sob. They’ll be back, you think. You must hurry. You stand. The night is dark. You creep through the woods, quivering, tense with concentration. An opening. A glade. You move around the circle, staying glued to the treeline, eyes fixed on the little
ESCAPE #horror You fling yourself into the ditch and burrow frantically, covering yourself with fallen leaves. Your heart hammers in your chest. You hold your breath and tremble in silence. The horses thunder by. You wait. You wait. You wait until you can wait no more. You gasp, pic.twitter.com/C2tQtxmDr0
4 of 5 stars to The Reckoning by Mary L. Trump goodreads.com/review/show/49…
up the courage, my darling. Do it. Do it. Little angel, please. OH JOY! OH RELEASE!
thousandth? ‘__________’ What’s that? Don’t bring my ember to flame, only to douse it. Oh, my soul, I will spill the words for the second time. ‘__________’ Oh, it proceeds, but now, but now … show exasperation. ‘__________’ Lean in. Pluck
My twisted fingers … agony to move. Go on, keep crying. Ah, you cry on the outside, I on the inside. Such a thin meager hope. So many years. You are the least likely of all who have gone before. Nevertheless, I will spill the words of instruction for the hundredth time …
perform my dream of a miracle? Well, there’s no reward to be found in delay. How many times have I reached this point only to be squashed hopeless by the cowardice of children seeming to be far bolder and sturdier than you, little chit? Mournful waif. Oh, my bones, how they ache.
THE WITCH'S FINAL THOUGHTS #FairyTaleTuesday So many times … hopes dashed … curse prolonged. Are you the one, child? I’ve heard you conspire with the boy every day. Oh, yes, little one, my eyesight is weak, but my earhear is most uncommon keen. Can such a tiny petal of life
SO CLOSE AND YET SO FAR #theatre A Streetcar Named Henrietta Ferguson by Kentucky Williams
IN A NUTSHELL #quotes These people have made many rules that the rich may break but the poor may not. - Sitting Bull 1877
THE PHYSICIST OF OZ #oz #physics As Dorothy walked on the yellow brick road in search of the physicist of Oz, she murmured, "Muons and gluons and quarks, oh my."
4 of 5 stars to Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Tra... by Hunter S. Thompson goodreads.com/review/show/49…
‘Oh, Mr. Claus, of course I’ll marry you,’ replied the maiden, pledging herself to a never ending but usually delightful existence at the North Pole on a distant planet.
of the stable and the insane monkey turning flips up and down the alley. The slim young man wearing boots with turnover tops looked at the maiden and presented her with a question mark fashioned from a bedspring painted white and sprinkled with red and green glitter.
MARRIAGE PROPOSAL #fantasy On cue, the streetlamps exploded, and the tiny reindeer emerged from the fake buffalo and fanned out to take their positions. The slim young man wearing boots with turnover tops nodded, and the secondary display unfurled, bats chittering down the wall
Would Wanda get true value for her many stone hen sculptures? Pembrook lusted to know the answers to these and other questions. How many hats would the Donaldson twins wear? What was the importance of Hermione’s vat filled with beads? Pembrook huddled high in the tree.
survival depended on his remaining perfectly silent. So naturally his throat tickled and his nose itched. He focused with savage agony his entire being on suppressing a sneezing cough fighting to explode from his rancid imperfect body. But what of Maurice and the dancing mice?
PEMBROOK #nonsense #whimsy Pembrook huddled high in the tree. Sweat trickled down his spine, beaded on his forehead. Yes, his forehead was beneath his spine. Was he safe from his pursuer? Time would tell. Or would it? Time couldn’t be trusted, Pembrook thought bitterly. His
Cornflake. ‘No more 1950?’ The professor nodded. Cornflake sat on the chair, and --- smiled in the mirror at his handlebar mustache and derby hat. Down the stairs he went and out into the Market Street hurly-burly. The accursed cereal wouldn’t be invented for years.
‘Yeah, boss. Here, boss. It’s ready, boss,’ said Blinky, opening the door and bowing away. Cornflake strode into the building. A single chair sat in the middle of an otherwise vast emptiness. The professor, smiling, stood next to the chair. ‘1874, San Francisco, right?’ said
opposing extremities of his mouth. He stuffed the note in his hatband, hurried through the revolving doors and onto the street. He dove for a cab and snarled the address. ‘And make it snappy!’ he added. The cab shot off and in minutes skidded to a stop in front of a warehouse.
he snatched the piece of paper from the silver dish offered by the bellhop. In the face of Cornflake’s burning scowl, the bellhop melted away in lieu of waiting for a tip. Cornflake perused the note. ‘It’s ready’ was all it said. The barest hint of a smile quivered at the
smirk. Nobody smirked. Instead, all busied themselves with newspapers, hat adjustment, wallet or purse inspection, whittling, any activity allowing them to avert their gazes from Mr. Bradley Cornflake, a known killer and terrible bad man. ‘Anything funny?’ roared Cornflake, and
THE ESCAPE OF BRADLEY CORNFLAKE #flashfiction ‘Cornflake! Bradley Cornflake! Message for Bradley Cornflake!’ ‘Here, boy!’ shouted Bradley Cornflake in as gruff a manner as his vocal apparatus allowed, all the while glaring around the hotel lobby in defiance, daring anyone to
A JAMES JOYCE BLESSING #jamesjoyce #wordmusic May your heaventree of stars be hung with night blue fruit.
LITERARY NEAR MISSES #Literature A Tree Grows in Brookline A Farewell to Legs Great Expectorations Huckleberry Finnegan’s Wake
out of the boat smoothly with purpose. You give the prow a mighty shove and watch the simple vessel’s serene withdrawal. You are out of the bushes and hurrying to the stand of trees, your destination. Oh, hope. Oh, reward. You grin and throw your arms wide. There she is! You die.
trickles down your spine. Pull, pull, you crash the shoreline bushes. You lean forward, gasping, at rest, rowing no more. The gun. You remember the gun. You grab it, fling it far. Splash. You lift the oars from the oarlocks and place them one next to the other in repose. You are
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