Beginnings, Chapter FourHauling mountains of luggage, plus the sleeping child, Arthur plodded up the path to the log cabin. He knocked at the door. And waited. And waited. Arthur looked back over his shoulder. The driver had already left, meaning Arthur was alone. At least, he felt alone. The sleeping child was more a responsibility than a companion, and Arthur felt more weighed down and tired than he had felt in ages. At long last, the door creaked open.There he was, just as Arthur remembered. Tall, long haired, and with something of a miniature beard. Francis’ eyes sparkled just as they had on the day he and Arthur had met. All at once, Arthur felt the bittersweetness of lost love and the angry rush of bloody battle. There were a million words he wanted to say. He started with one.“Hello.”Francis nodded. “Welcome to my home,” Francis replied. “Please, come in.”Without aski
Ask The Romance ExpertDear Romance Expert,Even though I am AWESOME, I could use some help. There’s this guy. He’s quiet and shy, but sweet as maple syrup. I’d do anything to get his attention, but, as the old trope goes, he doesn’t even know I exist. The weird thing is, I think I might be the only person who knows he exists. It’s kind of a weird situation. What should I do?-- The Awesome Me*****Dear Awesome,Your confidence is a wonderful asset. However, if this fellow you’ve got your eye on is really as shy as you say, it is important that you do not overwhelm him. Like a rose, love must blossom slowly. Make your move, but do so carefully.Honhonhonhonhon,The Romance Expert------------------------------Dear Romance Expert,I have a problem. I have a crush on my neighbour. He’s a really nice guy, if not a little awkward, but he’s fun and we get along well together. I think he likes
BlindfoldSuch a pretty blindfoldOn such a pretty youthA lust for revolutionBut no taste for the truthAnother manifestoA plant that’s gone to seedMore poison in the waterToo many words to readSuch a pretty sloganAnd such a slick saluteSo many ideasAnd every word acuteThey call themselves the heroesI called them too far goneBut then you went and joined themAnd tied your blindfold onI miss the friends I used to knowThe people I’d admiredI’d held a blindfold in my handsBut threw mine in a fireI’ll never shy away from factsAnd thus I’m called uncouthBecause it’s a such a pretty blindfoldAnd such an ugly truth
Beginnings, Chapter ThreeFlecks of grass caught in the carriage wheels as they spun along the fledgling nation’s excuse for a road. It wasn’t that no one cared enough to build a proper road. It was just hard to decide where best to put one, seeing as Canada had relatively few visitors spread out over a lot of space.Inside the carriage, little Alfred bounced up and down on the seat cushion. The momentum of the carriage urged him onward while every bump they rolled over sent him popping out of his seat. He had passed time on the long journey by making a game of it, purposefully jumping and letting the carriage’s shifting balance fling him along.Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have insisted he sit still, but after spending so long in close quarters with the youngster, he was simply glad that he was entertained. Relishing these relatively peaceful moments, Arthur caught up on some sleep. He had no way of knowing when he’d be interrupted once ag
Beginnings, Chapter TwoArthur may have been wrong about a lot of things, but he was right that Matthew needed companionship his own age. As bad as the fighting between Arthur and himself had been, Francis had to admit it was unfair to keep Matthew and Alfred separated. There were no other children in the area, so Matthew’s only friends were the squirrels and raccoons and ring-necked geese that populated the area. And, of course, his best friend was his papa - a papa who (however begrudgingly) knew the right thing to do. Grumbling, Francis pulled a new sheet of paper from the stack on his desk. He looked out the window to see little Matthew playing outside, and he silently cursed Arthur once more. With a freshly dipped quill in his hand, he began to write.Cher Arthur,J’accepte ton idéeHe scratched it out. He had forgotten to whom he was writing, apparently. Taking another piece of blank paper, Francis reminded himself that switching la
Beginnings, Chapter OneDay dawned early, brimming with the promise of summer. The scent of morning flowers perfumed the late June air, so Francis propped the door open wide. He crossed the cabin’s slightly uneven wooden floor and pulled the curtains away from the window as well. Soon, the quaint log cabin was filled with warmth and sweetness and sunlight.Stoking the banked embers in the tiny cast iron stove, Francis hummed to himself. He loved this time of year. It was a time of fond memories and new beginnings. He cracked a few eggs into a pan and set them over the flames to cook. That’s when he heard a squeak and a thud behind him.Francis turned around to see a pair of short, chubby legs sticking out from under a tangle of cloth. A single blond curl protruded from what appeared to be a sleeve.“M’aidez...” the bundle whimpered. “M’aidez, s’il vous plait.”Chuckling to himself, Francis approached th
YieldAutumn cloaks a darkling soulIn half-truths of vermillionCrimson, scarlet, amber, goldBeneath a blue pavilionAutumn hides its old grey bonesIn cupboards filled with snail shellsSkeins of birds and garden stonesWhere every half-lit secret dwellsAutumn’s guise is gossamerThistledown in parachutesRushing waters’ dulcimerAnd reed-song veil its bitter fruitsAutumn’s spirit is occultMelancholy, insidiousIt offers balmy days’ exultThen turns to storm, perfidiousAutumn’s altar smells of rainLeaf-mold, woodsmoke, rot and rustI yield to darkness in the veinDisease, decay, and ruined trust
Sunny DayIt's brightThe cool breeze runsAround meTo remind myselfThat it is alright.A gentle hand toGuide me through the daySmiling at me from above.The warmth is a blessingCleansing myselfOf the impurities I feel.Nature is a sweet blissWe take for granted.
imitationbut the night sky isnever black, it's always navy blueand i don't know ifthat's the moon's doingor the streetlights'
School busIt rises over the horizon like a leaking,gaseous sun. Creaking, clanking, complaining in the tendrils of cloud grasping at it-tearing away to rise over yet another hill,stirring rainbow glinting dew streaks in the asphalt jungle gym. its garish veneer reflecting the early morning rays harshly,blinding all who look upon its luminescent varnish.The brilliant exoskeleton of this marvelous bug reflects its officious innardsUrchin minds weary yet wild,freshfantastical. It has become the symbol of dread,hope,late nights,early mornings,freedom,captivity.This simply embellished wreck,become an enigma within itself as more join its engravings in the back of worn leather seats.Scuffed,tumble-weed halls-leading to smooth,creaking,wrinkled,silent,sticky,gray seats lightly illuminated in the fresh phosphoresce.If you look closely,the worn grooves of memories and laughter still linger here,waiting for the coming recollections to make their mark her
Autumn Day Blowing Winds, floating leaves,Trees of vibrant hues around,Throughout the forest there runsNews of what this season brings. Lasy grasses waving in the windThey move as waves upon the ocean.In the warmth its hard to thinkThat soon the snows will fly. In the field, hidden by waving grassA late born kit sleeps in peaceHe has been waiting for his mother,But she’s been gone so long. The setting sun turns clouds goldThe day is drawing to a fast closeSoon the night will take the forestInviting our the children of the night. A silent step among the grasses,The kit awakens, knowing mother’s stepAfter a warm greeting they runBack to their den, back to its safe arms.
O'sObscure Octopus Often Ogles Omniously
CricketsSounds that sparkleBreaking gently over the etherEchoes of a summer eveningThe heartbeat of time