in remembrance of Quasimodo with the breath of olden's short winds like unseen presence leaves of dead driven like ghosts fleeing bones of men with a little less chin and matted hair but the character of the man is in the treetops
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Musings Stories
Our Musings category focuses on speculation, reflection and deep thought, covering everything from self-contemplation to humorous views on life in general.
This is the place to submit your thoughts on spiritual matters or philosophical subjects and to share your feelings on any topics you’ve ever pondered or wondered about.
Narcissus, the Nephilim
a theological headcanon of mixed mythology“I want to be a demon,” the Nephilim said, “Even if I have to barter my wings for horns and a tail. I want to be a demon.” The priest furrowed his brow as he heard the confession, "Your lineage is half Divine, why would you give that up to be beyond the r...
“Why are you wearing that, Grandpa?” The little girl pointed to the golden squirrel pinned to my shirt. “I wear it in memory of Matty,” I replied. “I’ll never forget Matty,” she said. “To honor Matty’s memory then,” I told her. Matty had loved squirrels a...
I watch the sparrow, but can no longer hear its song. It seems everyone has something to say, and the noise now lives inside of me. Overwhelmed, I shake my head from side to side, but to no avail. I cannot break free. How I long to hear the sweet birdsong...
I am honest to most, yet my trust is not easily won. My vulnerability is something that rarely sees the light. Every battle, win or lose, I am a lone soldier. You do not deserve the weight of my burdens. I am not very strong, but I can hold myself up. I a...
A flicker of blonde, that I once believed was gold. A heart seemingly full of kindness. Yet now there only seems to be a hole. A pretty face masking the ugliness underneath. I believed time would bring compassion, yet now there is only more hate. * Wrappi...
With strings of a dulcimer shaking me a willow. with a scent that weeps the silence of it all touching the creek stones with Autumn's tomorrow shaking me a willow holding it close to the windmill of my mind in the eddies of my prose with strings of a dulc...
The Blinking Line
The infinite battle of procrastinating.C1…C2…C3… Cervical vertebrate pulling, bones dislodging. Snap! Like a fat leather boot stopping on a bag of Cheetos. Tongue out like a thirsty dog, panting as my eyes escape my skull. I enter an abysmal tunnel, closing in on me. I can hear bells, ringing...
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What If?
When I'm alone, I think about SO many things...What if I stopped being annoyed when people don’t follow the rules? What if I didn’t feel compelled to comment when a conversation didn’t include me? What if I just turned up the volume on the television or radio when the speed demon toddler starts to rac...
Listening to fool's chatter the hypocrisy of dark's inquisitor "my God, what has happened, with fire over the waterfall?' name brands deceiving pedophile roses and politicians lying and skeleton stems of man and beast food for carrion look for the shadow...
The Floor Is Lava
Just a day in the life...As the morning alarm sounds and the automatic blinds open, I rise from the couch and stretch. I started in the bed, curled up next to the woman who feeds and cares for me, but she moves around at night. So, at some point, like most nights, I moved to the...
Chaos, unpredictable running helter-skelter burning down homes flinging stones scripted but no King David crazy, deranged addiction, intoxication madmen insane everything woke Prozac made in China logjams, bridges block one-way streets with speed bumps an...
Beneath a tin can sky of indigo-blue and the doves can coo on nature's mother earth adorning the Ponderosa Pines with a basketful of jubilation as God's shells sunlight cascading over babbling brook and Ebenezer stones in poetic Genesis and the doves can...
Getting my nude on beneath the Hippocratic eyes of dubious doubters who have lost bouquets being the squatters to observe the nakedness of you and I focusing on the shadow of my being into the midst of recurring dreams my own Michelangelo and not someone'...
Just me and my muse, at play in a field of wishful thinking, so I sow my own seeds and reap the sweetness of my family. You don't know me, a well-worn pen, assuming me wrong, in blind eyesight. But that's the way I am wary, not a fool. Sarcastically, my f...