The Waiting Landscape

There is something eerie about an empty field in the noonday sun. As if it's waiting for something to appear out of the heat shimmer and cicada hum.

Among The Grain

Some time ago, I wrote about the country road that led to my grandmother's house, and how some nights, I imagined I might see Mothman there. It was also one the roads mentioned here, that my sister and her friends would cruise, listening to Hypnotized by Fleetwood Mac.

Well, we were out there the other day, for the first time in years. and - wonder of wonders - guess what song came on the radio?

It wasn't at night, no, but I'm not sure I really want to run into Mothman after all.

The Value Of Writng Things Down

It's been a year now since I posted "the girl who was witched away".  It wasn't easy to write, nor was it very informative or even very good, but it seems to have been enough. Which is what I'd hoped for, after all.
When an icy wind cuts across the fields and the sky is a certain color,  the familiar twinge of anguish bites. Then I remember, I already wrote it. It's over, it's done. The twinge is only the remnant  a 30 year-old habit. It can be dismissed, sent off to the past where it belongs. It no longer lives and breathes.

The story doesn't have to belong to me any more. I no longer have to be haunted by it. It's just another damn thing on the internet now.

Thank heavens.