The name meant nothing to her. She’d heard it murmured by others
once or twice, and whispered it to herself in the grayed shadows of night. But still,
the word was just a pair of syllables, having no weight or depth of their own.
Why then did she find her fingertips bruised, nails chipped and bloodied from
repeated attempts to scratch the letters into the stone she’d tucked inside her
pocket? Surreptitious strokes, thumb circling, reassuring.
A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.
Doing the best I can with what I have
kind of sad, but not so bad with cheese. cheese not provided.
My streams of thought meet here
Conceptual Photographer and Writer
Ramblings
Killer Fiction
Music and Storytelling
Besteesydian
A bit of this...A bit of that...bit of everything...come on in...
Life in a flash - a bi-weekly storytelling blog
MARK PETRUSKA | WRITER
Short essays about novels and other fictional works
By Ian Garrabrant
Home of Micropoetry, Literature, art and philosophy.
Just a fiction writer, trying to reach the world.
I'd curtsy but I'm drunk.
Praying for Eyebrowz 
I like this one a lot…shall read it again methinks
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You must be back home…
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Finally got home last night. My lumpy old bed never felt so good!
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That was a grand trip!
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It was! But I’ve been a lousy blog follower for two weeks! So much reading to do.
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You have a lot to write too I guess 🙂
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Wishing I’d taken better notes!
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Oh, that is so true… When you focus on driving, the details just slip away from your memory
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