For a prompt, I asked myself what would be my version of Utopia:
Scraggly roots break up the ground, there trees growing tall and strong. Their branches bend under the weight of thick green leaves, the sun filtering through, creating a dapple of light upon the dirt floor. Between these trees are large bookcases, though between might be the wrong word it’s more like they are part of the trees. Continue reading “A Library in the Woods”
It can be said that nearly every old village in Ireland is well-equipped with a quality ghost story or two, or perhaps three or four in some cases. Most are the quintessentially sinister legends of revenge and death, such as the legend of Thomas Ó’Baoghill, whose ghost roams the stony fields of Kilkennery, ever in search of his murderous brother, who killed him on a blustery winter night. Others star ghosts which are of the more helpful type, such as Temporary Mary, who wanders the empty nighttime roads between Oldcastle and Knockborough, singing to travelers and keeping them from danger, or the Watchdog, who barks at night to keeps rouges away and sometimes digs up forgotten treasures. Some stories are so old nobody remembers the original version anymore, others are—quite frankly—ridiculous, or told only to keep children in line, or repeated year after year in front of a roaring fire purely for the joy of the thrill it gives, and others haven’t even been invented yet. Then, of course, there are the little-told legends which tell of sorrowful ghosts who should not have been, lost souls and woeful brides, more accounts than folklore, told only in whispered tones when one is feeling especially brave, for these are the kind of ghost stories which are the most likely to be true.
This one in particular, the Ghosts of Ballimere Bog, is such a tale.
I have always had a soft spot for romantic notions and ideas. I love the idea of romance, I love the reality of a strong and loving relationship even better. “To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet, is her attempt to express the depths of her feelings and emotions towards her husband. Bradstreet instantly had my attention when she started with “If”, this use of a conditional clause intrigued me, she uses it to draw attention to the immense compatibility and love between the speaker and her husband. Continue reading “An Image of Love: “To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet”
Deep within the realm of the stars lies a beast. He is an ancient being, crafted from the darkness that was the face of the deep, before man became man and the earth and sky were without form. When the light came, separating night from day and the light from the dark, that is when he was born. Fashioned out of scattered pieces of the heavens, built by the hands of the divine. The Creator breathed life into what had been designed and the beast came to life, shaking a mighty head and splashing the waters of the firmament around his feet. Opening his great mouth to yawn, he settled down to watch as a World was built around him, a single World where only a void had once resided. The waters of land and sky were divided, giving name to Earth and Heaven. Stars filled in the empty places of the night. The Hand took up a brush and painted the world with Color, adding red, gold, silver, and many others to the blank pages until at last, it was finished.
“We need to talk.”
Olivia made the decision to pedal harder, words like those always lead to unpleasantness, and Olivia as a matter of course always avoided unpleasantness.
“What?” she shouted over her shoulder, hair wiping into her eyes, pretending not to have heard.
“We need to talk.” He repeated, voice louder, tone a mixture of anxiety and frustration. The wind was rushing past her ears, and the gravel crunching beneath her tire.
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