Looking in a bookstore or library for a sign from God. Why not a church?_calypse_The Hungry Christma
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Looking in a bookstore or library for a sign from God. Why not a church?
I almost always get lost. It is a habit; I think. Why? To find one’s self, one has to be completely lost at times.That is at least part of my thought process. I usually look for a sign to follow.Examples?If I am new to a town and want a great place to eat? Find a large person who eats out and follow them or ask them where they like to eat.Why? Most large people or strong people tend to eat at good places because they like decent meals.Signs are everywhere these days, about the ends of time. But I keep on ranting and raving and finally giving up on people. Why?Because it is the signs of the tim...
calypse
she’s putting up her clothes when her brother walks into the room, but he doesn’t say anything, just picks up a hanger from her bed and twists it around and around until it’s not a hanger, not a shape at all, anymore. she wants to ask if he’s okay but she knows the answer is a solid no and so she chomps down over her bottom lip and her top teeth stick out like they belong to a rabbit, or a hamster, or a very old man named hector. her brother takes the hanger and wraps the wire, now wasted and outstretched, around his wrist once, twice, three times and then he looks up at his sister. she smiles...
The Hungry Christmas Tree
The twenty-foot tree was magnificent! All forty-nine wee elves skipped around its base with strings of colored lights, silver tinsel, and finely crafted wooden ornaments. Its fresh, piney green scent was intoxicating, the elves buried their faces in the soft needley boughs.The elves giggled like squirrels, chattered like monkeys, and laughed like loons. As the last of the lights were lit, and the last of the ornaments hung, the elves discussed the finale…the decoration for the very tip-top. The angel was white, with tinsel hair, pale blue gossamer wings, and a gown sparkling with sugary glitte...
Wet paint and gold lettering
Routine never fails to surprise. A peck on my soft cheek lays a wet parting gift as my mother trips out our brightly painted door. The sunshine yellow now starting to peel and twist into wrinkles at its edge, justifying our impulsive stroke of competence of suddenly knowing how to paint weathered hardware. A hand flies into the crack of the closing door as a last wave before escaping the jaws, snapping back into the doorframe. I stand once again in stillness, eyeing the two hands printed on the door face with craft paint signing our existence. My rigwww.onedoor.ccht hand still lingering with the sensation o...