Death and Timothy

This story is not yet complete.

Death came early to the boy, at the tender age of three and would visit often then-after. At first, distraught by the ghastly figure, he cowered beneath blankets, clinging to a stuffed kangaroo, working up the courage to scream. Eventually, he fell asleep.

He would awake, comforted by the warmth of daylight through the window and relieved that the putrid odor was gone. The boy reasoned it best not to tell anyone, if he hid well and didn't acknowledge the robed apparition, it might vanish. After all, many things were imaginary.
Months passed, almost an entire year. Death visited every few nights. The boy would cower, surrounded by his favorite toys, clutching Garoo. Death would wait at the foot of the bed, watching the boy through the covers, considering.

Musing in a Cafe

“The energy of this place is all wrong.”

“It is? I hadn't noticed, dear. What's the energy supposed to be like?”

“Just more and less and well, just not like this, not like this at all. Have you ever been in a coffee shop with energy like this?”

“I don't know, dear, you know me, I'm so grounded. You have to have your head up in the aether to pick up on energies, the way you do.”

“True, true. You know, you have a brown aura, the color of Earth. It's like the Mother has embraced you, holds you close, inside her self.”

Better Late...

I've been stuck on the essay this week. We've had family in town and I've been unable to escape it all. I seem to remember, most writers do their stuff late at night or early in the morning, locked away in a private study, or sequestered in friend's summer homes during the winter months or in the back corner of a busy coffee shop.

The point is, writing requires solitude, of some sort. I've learned recently, that silence actually helps, as the effect of noise, especially music, on mood is profound.

Inheritance

The Sun was setting; Venus the only visible body, in the sky.

“That's the International Space Station,” The Father said.

“Wow!” The Son was awed.

The God I'd Believe In

The day I met the Angel, was altogether unremarkable. Breezy & warm while I had been at work, all that giving way to a calm chill and the freedom of evening. It was too nice to stay in, a quick stop at home to change into me, then I was out for the evening. I rode my bike downtown, local coffee shop, town's favorite and mine, a band was playing, standing room only. So, I got a tea to go, Darjeeling.

On the way out, I recognized a face, no name came to mind, I gave a half-smiling nod.

“Hey,” she waved, “can I bum a cigarette?”