My journal of big words and pretty pictures
Previously: Paisley, rosemary, and time A half-eaten deli sub, still partially wrapped in its butcher paper sleeve, lay bleeding olive oil on Det. Sean Webster’s desk. His rumpled shirt and tie were splattered with the greasy effluence and tiny orts of focaccia dotted the thighs of his dark, too-tight pants. June Chapel sat across from … Continue reading Drawing blood
Previously: Paisley, rosemary, and time Alone in a gloomy room, furnished with a graffiti-etched table and four stained office chairs, Paisley sat the table with a can of flat soda and a bag of stale potato chips. Across the room from her was a large one-way mirror. Watching the girl was a homicide detective and … Continue reading You don’t know, what you don’t know
Up before her parents were out of bed, Paisley sat in a white plastic chair on the patio outside their hotel bedroom. She tried to be very quiet opening the sliding glass door, but it screeled when its rollers skidded across the accumulation of grit in the tracks. Paisley, not big enough to pick up … Continue reading Sea breeze wishes
Walking along the sandy path that skirted Crystal Lake, no one would never know that the unremarkable body of water was actually a rare phenomenon found only a few places in the world. The lake, a shimmering oasis of green on the leeward side of the ocean dunes, was a freshwater habitat until fluctuations in the … Continue reading Cat Paw Island
Goodwood Duxford tales... “This all has me so discombobulated.” Goodwood Duxford sat next to Grace Leighton on a small, concrete, grieving bench near her grave site. He was seeking the dearly-departed, Widow Leighton’s help in quashing a wraith uprising. An uprising much like the one that killed Goody’s great-grandfather, Egbert. “How can I help you … Continue reading Secret weapon
Goodwood Duxford tales… Sparks bloomed where his incendiary words dropped to the ground, erupting in tiny bursts of orange, red, and gold, searing a path through the tall grass. Heat trailed after him, a tsunami of shimmering wildfire in his wake. Harlan Beaumont’s nefarious nature, a residual natal nuance, was a family trait that had … Continue reading Down in flames
Thin spiral notebook 