Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
Dear son, The wind still plays that same old note as it travels down from the mountains and sweeps over the hills. It rushes into the glen where I can hear it whistle in our roof. The walls creak from the strain of its force and the glass rattles in the window frame. One night …
She reaches down into the well, grasping the rope tightly with both hands. Every thread of the rope has turned brown and stiff with age. Inch by inch, new segments of rope come into view from the echoing depths, until finally a bucket mottled with rust appears over the edge of the well. She lifts …
Writing on Tangents