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
Itty Bitty Creepy CrawliesItty bitty creepy crawlies,creeping along the ground.See them, no,feel them, yes,as they creep around on eight toes.Itty bitty creepy crawlies,creeping along the ground.Watch them climb,watch them fly,along their silken threads.Itty bitty creepy crawlies,creeping along the ground.Watch them feed,with a desperate need,inside their silken homes.Itty bitty creepy crawlies,creeping along the ground,They come to say hello,up your arm, down your spine,then they say, good day.
SunrayI will walk the morning sunto the edge of the very last raylet it fill me breath to lungI will shine away
Painting the SkyMother Nature:Effortless in her grace,Flawless in her beauty,The world a canvas,With her palate of infinite color,Any method or tool at her disposal.She is the master of pieces,The composer of ancient lyric,The writer of every story,The artisan of all trades.She paints the heavens at dawnWith hues of violet, orange and rose,And strains the clouds on the horizon.The rising sun’s light reflecting off their surfaces,Cascading vibrance onto the weary eyesOf those in slumber, and those awoken long before.She calls the birds to sing the melodiesKnown to them by heart,And as they face the new morning,They bravely sing the intricate verse,A language all their own,But one that all are blessed to hear.She takes her brush and streaks it across the clouds,And carefully flicking the moisture down to earthShe adorns all things with the finest crystalline water,Dew covering the grasses,The weaving of spiders,The flowers untouched by crude hands.She gently blows a sin
ForgottenBlot the fetid spews of AutumnEvery blossom once soft; Now rottenVegetation once lush; Now soddenSwallowed by earth; A promise solemnAll those fallen will birth new pollenEach lives on; be naught forgotten..
autumn veinscan't you take your eyes awayfrom the bright blooms inyour memories?look out the window;you can see the tan winds,the cyclone of cyclicalfallen leaves, loves,lives, thestruggles of wildflowerthorns to be seen,not felt.look closelyand see a child.there are dying weedsin her white headbandand whispered poemsin her bruised feet.remember when you had to choosebetween the summer breeze andautumn gales?this is is that moment.((you made the right choice.))
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,this, our neighborhood of galaxies,in which only a single staramong billionsis even remotely reachable.And we tell ourselvesto dream big.That hard workwill get us there.But on the cosmic scaleour collective capacityis nothing.For every star in the Milky Way,all four hundred billion or more,there is a galaxy.Even the Local Groupis nothing.Yet since dreams are orbitalwe hold our breath to reach them.And when we perish in the vacuumthe stars still burneverything that matters.
each autumn is another springautumns where every leaf isa fumbling wildflower andevery deep sunset where colours bleedagainst the horizon,pools of melted copper andshreds of cloud like glittering morningdawns:i hope you realise how eachautumn is another springhowthree blackbirds fly across painted skies,tearing up the dust ican still taste the peppermint the sugarhills and every midnight, dandelions theydance in my chalice ofchipped china coffee mugs.whilst islept, bluebells, baby crocusbuds swept apeek round my doorway andI didn't prepare for a drenched bouquet ofsilk netted soaked morning lights onmy doorstep wheni'm still dreaming of circledstreet-lamp hues as soft as whispers thathang high above thedew drops in the air-come take me there.
DisdainThe statues crumbledAt the might of the earthShe holds such disdainTowards our shattered idols of marble.The likeness of the starsGifted by the godsErected upon her surface,But intolerant is she.She shakes so harshlyAnd spits up her coreBetrayed, she feels,As we put pale ghosts before her.
Winds of ChangeContact calm,You feel me upon your face as you open the window.A soft breeze,So delicate to which a flower petal cannot compare.Whisper now,For that voice you hear in the air so euphonious.Blinding turn,A twist of rage begins my cycle, a force to reckon with.Wrathful howl,A cyclone of fury rips across, destruction in my wake.Moving on,Calm replaced with chaos, removing everything in sight.I die down,Torrential convergence from wild back to mild.
CricketsSounds that sparkleBreaking gently over the etherEchoes of a summer eveningThe heartbeat of time