Jack began to think the wound was superficial because there was no pain. Sure, there was pain when the knife went in, sharp and cold, but now there was nothing. He was numb. Sleep. That was all that was needed, sleep. Just a little rest and everything would be okay… Jack opened his eyes, blinking
I had the privilege of hearing Kurt Vonnegut speak once toward the end of his life. I was overwhelmed by his humor and humanity. He was a unique and brilliant individual. The video below showcases that humor and his skill. So take 5 minutes to be thoroughly entertained. Who knows, you could be inspired
I am driving home from work in the rain. The traffic is heavy and I am upset. Not at anything, in particular, just a strange combination of angry-sad, non-focused malaise. I have a feeling of something is wrong, there is something missing. And the rain is coming down and I can’t see and that jackass
It is a question we’ve all been asked at least once at some point in our childhood. And the answer, at least for me, would change depending on the time and place or the frame of mind I was in. I can remember most of the answers I gave and the reasons behind them for
I sit and look out my back window into the yard behind my house. It is large and full of trees; a combination of fir and pine and aspen. On this day, early in the morning, it is cold and fog is moving in. The white/grey translucent mist sneaks its way into the yard. It
My first trip to the Faraway Lands came through a Magical Box and was quite unexpected. It happened when I was seven years old and grounded. Now, to my knowledge, there are three ways to get to the Faraway Lands. Each one has its benefits; each one has its drawbacks. One is not better than
I'm going to post this with very little comment from me other than to welcome you to this month's theme: FREEDOM. The reason for posting this should be fairly obvious. And by way of commentary, I shall simply give you a couple of definitions written by Ambrose Bierce himself: Freedom, n. Exemption from the
Back when I was in High school I took an art history class where we studied the life and works of artists from the Renaissance to the modern period. I had by this time already fancied myself an artist and had already figured out what was good art and what was not. Modern Art,
I wheeled the bike from the garage and took a deep breath. It was the start of the lull week that happened every summer. The week when every kid I knew was off at camp and I was on my own. Every year the neighborhood children would be shipped off to some 7 day secluded
I seem to be moving from erratic to consistent in so many ways—how and when I drive, how and when I eat, how and when I prepare for my classes and grade essays, how and when I hang out with my wife. I suppose it was inevitable. After all, doesn’t this happen to everyone
