Amidst a sea of uncertainty in life, we return to our comforts as old, worn jeans and childhood bedrooms, if we are so fortunate as…
For nearly ten years, through high school and into university, I blogged nightly. Most of the writing was trite and self-aggrandizing, but every once in a while I would recount a story of some noteworthy merit.
She sat by the old apple tree up on Black Creek hill, munching on an apple quite contently. Without a care, she quietly looked down on the marvellous and fascinating world below her. There she sat, all alone. But she was not lonely, for she had her apple tree — and he had she.
Found on his typewriter next to a burnt out pile of buts in an ashtray unkempt. He was 26.
January 1, 2008: A Letter In Memorandum
There was a time, years ago, when I wrote religiously. As vital as breathing, ’twas; as necessary as…