Critical Inaccuracy, Chapter 1 of 7 - A Common Goal_Arrows of Artemis_A Little Older, A Lot Wiser_Th
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Critical Inaccuracy, Chapter 1 of 7 - A Common Goal
It was just another typical, boring, completely ordinary, spring morning. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming, yada yada.Only, today was not just a typical morning. For Torrain..."Today's the day.", said Torrain, fresh out of bed, "I've got no time to waste, I've gotta get ready for my interview!".Torrain hopped out of his bed with a child-like excitement, as he stretched, and got himself ready to get himself ready.He took a shower, humming the whole way through, followed by a clean shave.Torrain looked deep into the mirror with a steely determination, "You've got this, Torrain, show 'emwww.onedoor.cc...
Arrows of Artemis
Velos spied the black-necked pheasant pecking at grain seeds that dotted the ground of the newly harvested wheat field. As she watched the bird hop to its left and poke its gray beak at a dried-out husk, the huntress slipped an arrow from her hip quiver and placed it in the string of her bow. She held her breath as she aimed at the speckled brown feathers just below the bird’s reddish crown.A few seconds later, her arrow found its mark.She placed the bird in her game pouch and whispered words of gratitude to the Goddess. It was going to be a good hunting day.As Velos strode past the wheat fiel...
A Little Older, A Lot Wiser
It was the worst few years of my life. First, I contracted Lyme disease, which was so excruciating, physically, mentally, and any other way a person can suffer, that I considered suicide more than once. A parade of doctors told me I was delusional and needed a psych evaluation. If I'd heard, "All your labwork is normal," one more time, I might have landed in jail on assault charges. One doctor, who looked about twelve years old, actually twirled her finger next to her head and said, "You know, many times, these things are all in our head, Dear." Luckily I found an integrative M.D. who knew a ...
The Wound
His dirty fingernails made flakes of the raw skin surrounding the puss-filled crater above his ankle. Like a bitch in heat dragging her backside across the yard, he scratched the itch. His fingers became wet with a viscous mixture of blood and puss. He was sure that the antibiotics to cure his staph infection hadn't worked; the bowl-shaped depression was becoming larger, and the swelling of his chaffed skin around the wound would soon burst like a volcanic fissure and consume more of his leg. Don't lose sight of the long game by reveling in quick wins; his words as the marketing leader at Will...