Hoping For a Blessing_Rarer Than the Gold of Ophir_Window of Dreams_A Metaphor
Catalog Guide:
Hoping For a Blessing
The silver armor of the approaching order of knights gleams with menace as they advance toward King Quentin Kaloric’s castle.Four knights detach themselves from the order, their metal shoes clanking loudly as they cross the drawbridge.Still standing at attention outside of the castle, their battle flags flying, the figures of the other hundred knights appear to fade into the moonlit night. Despite the warmth of his oversized robe, King Quentin shivers as he watches the four knights get closer, their metal shoes leaving a trail of blood.“They must be stopped,” King Quentin says.Julian Hammersm...
Rarer Than the Gold of Ophir
“Why do you strike the fish above the eyes,” Emma asked her dad. Jace remembered what he said to his beautiful daughter those many years ago. “That’s a good question, Emma. The reason is that you want to stun the fish into unconsciousness so when you bleed him out, he doesn’t suffer.” “Oh,” she said as she watched. His wife edged over to Emma. “There’s no need to traumatize her,” and she redirected Emma’s attention elsewhere. Emma was only ten then, and it was her first fishing trip. Kate,www.onedoor.cc his wife, had reluctantly agreed to go. She wasn’t the outdoor type, but Jace, having no sons, hoped to i...
Window of Dreams
I sit perched on the window sill. My legs stretched out, book in my lap. The house is quiet, the only sounds are the wind blowing through the curtains and the chirp of the birds. Tendrils of warm air curl around my legs and beg me to come with them to run free be free. I run my fingers over the stained glass window, the glass-smooth like water. No one knows what color the window truly is. It changes based on where you're standing. Sometimes cool deep tones of blue calm ocean colors, others fiery reds and oranges, and sometimes a little bit of both. It depends on who you are. I can almost hear ...
A Metaphor
Leaves wisp by in a crescendo, swirling and dancing through the cool evening air. Far removed from any city or town sits a train station. This is the station at the end of the line. Countless tracks lead into its terminals, and only one leads out. No one knows how to get there or even how they got there, but everyone ends up there. The platform is empty except for a small boy sitting on a bench accompanied only by the dancing leaves. He is counting the bricks, one by one, that are interwoven amongst the platform. The leaves whirl around his ankles and tickle his calves. The boy giggles and sm...