A Snowdrop in Winter

The wind blew, rustling the brittle branches, dry from the chill and frigid air that made the world seem dead.
              Bleak was the tone of thought, of word, which of practice turns into deeds, and the whole world flipped on end in cruel injustice.  
              For all had gone mad.
              Only to be saved by the sight of a green shoot, that pushed itself up through the hard-bitten ground, and shocked the grey with blinding whiteness; pure snow.
              A small calm begat a small thought, and then a word, and last a deed.  
              The world would change.


Once upon a time there lived a woman who had a golden touch.
This was not to say that everything she touched turned to gold—because it didn’t.Rather, when her forefinger touched a stick, the wood found itself with a golden sheen.When the back of her hand brushed a blade of grass, it yellowed like fair stalks at the end of summer.And when her palm rested against the smooth stone of an alabaster statue, it looked as though lit with the light of dawn. News of her gift traveled far and wide, greatly exaggerating her ability.It was said, of course, that what she touched turned to gold. Out came the suitors, knocking eagerly at her door.Down rushed the nobles, with desperate offerings.Trippingly trekked the entrepreneurs, keen for an easy venture. And all were, quite naturally, disappointed. Save one.A tiny orphan boy had heard tales of wonders, and when he peaked through the woman’s windowpanes, her golden touch held his gaze.For to him, to witness her work warmed him more thoroughly than anyth…

A Tear of Sorrow

There was once a tear of sorrow that traveled far and wide, through all the pain that ever was.

            And at the end, when it had tasted all sadness, it went to its rest having born witness to wonders.

            For sorrow only comes to those who have loved and longed.

The Writer

A desk sat in the corner of a room, empty.A man stood behind it.He had done so for a long time.And when he wasn’t standing behind the desk, he was pacing.
The desk had not always sat empty.It had begun with a holiday, no more than a day of rest.A single day out from behind the leveled wood; a blissful time of company and laughter and joy and feasting.But one day turned into two, and so on. Day followed day, and the man glanced, then looked, then stared at the desk and the chair that went with it and the pen and ink and paper that rested on its smooth surface—and trembled. Perhaps, he thought as his mind began to turn, his gift had gone.Perhaps he was no good from the beginning.Perhaps to work on a dream was to waste his life, to bash at no more than wishful fantasy.Perhaps now was the time to take himself in hand.Master himself.Seek out other employment; useful work—it was not pandering to scoffers if the scoffers spoke truth.For what, his mind taunted, was the use of setting pen to pape…

The Heralds of the Bells

The bells rang once, and the world stopped.

The bells rang twice, and the world went about its business.

The bells rang thrice, and the world stilled in sorrow.

The bells rang forth, and the world filled with joy.