Susan picked up rocks and sticks on her walks through the park. “You have to get your raw materials somewhere,” she explained to herself, since no one was listening. Sometimes the rocks were plain and dull and shapeless, like the ones she’d found in the gravel as a little girl…

–completely insane, I mean you can’t tell me you actually believe those superstitions. –Matters very little what I believe, in the last analysis. Mattered very little what the individual villagers on the island believed, either. –Now what do you mean by that? –I mean most of them were just as…

Clouds hung gray just above the treetops, now and then descending in banks of fog that choked out the light of the sun. Beyond the clouds, the light of the sky had climbed to the height of midmorning, yet all around a twilit gloom settled across the land. The forest…

“And how do you plan to get my daughter back to me?” The Priestess winced. Agatha sat at her right side at the table, glancing now and then at the kitchen door and through the window, where a group of Temple bodyguards stood bored at their ease. …

The Priestess awoke the next morning, trembling all over with her right hand curled into a fist as if around an invisible dagger. In the darkness of her chamber, the vapors of a fading dream drying up in her memory, she half-believed it was years ago. “Sofia…?” she whispered into…

This post is mostly going to be a bit of housekeeping, etc. So if you’re a regular you should probably stick around for this, but if you’re not I doubt you’ll find anything in here you’ll care about. Since the end of the Cynthia story is coming into sight, I’m…

One of the more common methods atheists use to attack the Christian God is on moral grounds. They’ll point to the moral repugnance and barbarity of some of God’s actions as described in the Bible. To pick a few of the more salient examples: · God demands that Abraham sacrifice…

A true poem traces the outlines of the unspeakable, without releasing the tension in a banal attempt to express the truth outright. Eliot’s Prufrock never reveals the overwhelming question the reader is to be led to ask. The voice delineating Keats’ Grecian urn assures us that heard melodies are sweet…

She sat on the stone bench, contemplating the darkness. Darkness is never empty. At times it hangs close about the eyes, forcing itself on them with an energy and vigor that possesses the depth of the soul and disturbs its balance. …