The dark abandoned pioneer road, closed by the new landowner decades before, continued to descend, as it had all night, while the exhausted brothers walked with slow deliberate feet, working down another switchback. Echoes from Hurricane Creek whispered in the distant night as the moon glimmered behind the unforgivingly dense canopy of oak and cedar. Todd, the oldest of the two brothers, grimaced with his headlamp shining on the trail and blamed James’ obsessive compulsive disorder for their current state of affairs. [read more]

Nope. Guess again.
[read more]

We’re live!

Your hands made me and formed me:
give me understanding to learn your commands.

Epiphany opened her eyes and watched from behind a veil of sweaty hair, blurry feet rushing towards her. She watched as the feet knelt down, bringing with them, a blurry face that pushed back the veil and mumbled something. She felt a hand, enormous and warm like a blanket, covering her back. It felt as if someone had poured a pitcher of hot water over her. Her eyelids fluttered like a butterfly. [read more]

Drop.

The day crept through her blindless window as Epiphany lay in bed with her sheets wrapped bloody around her feet. She had crawled into bed during the night. Outside, the snow continued to fall, as it had all night, gently rapping on her window and collecting in the corners of the old wooden windowpane. The thin and listless hours of the day had begun as she clutched her pillow pawing the bed with eyes still shut, searching for her comforter, which had fallen to the floor. She found it and as she pulled it to herself, she pulled with it, dust from the floor. The sunlight illumined the roused dust around her like a halo. [read more]

Like most writers, I don’t know what I know until I start to write about it. The very process of writing becomes the process of revelation. I write not because I see, but in order to see. I don’t have a vision of the world which must, with missionary fervour, be passed on. The imagination . . . offers treasures, mysteries, gifts. The writer must unwrap them and greet them with the time-honoured cry of “Just what I wanted!”

Nigel Forde

The rain continued to fall, as with all late Spring rains in Texas, like dripping TAP Water. Matthew, an eccentric six-year-old, sat staring out the window in his orange lounge chair, stolen from a church camp in Colorado earlier that Spring. Truthcasting the church flyer still read months later, crumpled wet underneath the family’s broken station wagon windshield wiper. Across the street, through the trees, and just beyond his uncle’s rooftop, Matthew eyed The Barren Billboard – Business tired with age – poorly displaying a once proud message of the 1990’s optimism. Join The Private Jet Club and give yourself luxury like never before! [read more]

New music recommendation.