The white climbing rose that stood on the east side of Keep Meridian’s garden had many names. To rose fanciers, (who came from miles around to view her splendor) she was the Scimitar Rose. To the bards, she was the noble Queen of the Flowers. But to the Elves of Meridian, she was Akasma, or at least the only part of her that remained in this world.
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A curious fact about Midsummer is that it does not fall in the middle of our calendar summer. However, Midsummer does fall in the middle of true summer, around the time of the solstice and of St. John’s Day. In the context of trees and grasses and flowers and agriculture, summer began months ago and is now at its peak, now declining with the sun towards Michaelmas and autumn.
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“If a person lives a great life, gives love to his friends, family and random strangers. If he upholds his beliefs and lives by example, but he isn’t religious, does he get into Heaven?” …First, what do we mean when we talk about Heaven?
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Welcome to the future, where humans have colonized the moon, Mars, and much more. Where people are categorized based on the planet they come from. Where living on a spaceship for more than a month at a time is normal. Where crew becomes family.
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Like a 16-year-old crossing a field at noon
A little word has a lot of ground to cover in the heat
A mile of open ground to a wall and some trees
Where confusion does not want it to arrive
“Filomena, Filomena! Mama says make it quick. Mama, Papa, Francisco and I are already ready!” blurted ten-year-old Fatima.
“I know; I’ll be out in a minute!” Filomena called back in exasperation.
Saint John the Baptist, a man not shaken by the wind, a man not dressed in the finery of the palace, eater of locusts. Well, that last one doesn’t sound quite as impressive, but he did eat locusts as well as whatever he could find in the desert near the Jordan River. He lived the life God called him to live, and he lived it well, so he has a feast day in the Calendar of Saints….
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One of the merry mysteries of midsummer
Is that midsummer isn’t midsummer at all
Maybe it was, back in the shadows of time
When Tolkien’s fairies blessed a happier world
The hell hole was vanishing. Suddenly, a black, hairy arm thrust out of the darkness and grabbed me by the vest, yanking me into the hole.
“WALTER!” Conrad cried as I fell into the darkness.
The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, The Chronicles of Narnia… There’s no doubt about it, we readers and writers love fanfiction.
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Have you noticed that despite all speakers’ efforts, graduation speeches sound very much alike? “Keep the torch alive to pass to a new generation with the key that unlocks the road to the future…”
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He raised his flashlight and finally caught whoever it was. It was a girl, with long brown hair that fell down her back and across her chest, and almost translucent white skin. But she was no human, she had a purple and green tail where her legs should be. The scales ran all the way up her body, ending just below her collarbone.
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“Gather around girls, gather around! It’s story time!” Aunt Nancy, the headmistress of the orphanage, sat down in her usual chair, the rocking chair set in the corner next to the fireplace.
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My father beached at Normandy on the second day
(He was okay with having missed the first)
From there through France to Belgium in the mud
For a bloody Christmas in the icy Bulge
One of those Ancient Greek philosophers – Aristotle, maybe – said that there were three types of friendship. Whatever he called them, I’m going to call them the Fun Friend, the Useful Friend and the True Friend.
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This massive land that I see
Spread from sea to shining sea
Is a very unique lot
It’s been called a melting pot…
Memorial Day is when we remember our friends
As they were…
Each of us has a place inside, deep inside our inmost being, hidden away from prying eyes and mocking words. It is a place of snowflakes and bubbles, of hopes and fears. It is a place in which one wrong move means catastrophe…
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If today you find yourself in the company of Texas Rangers, no matter who you are, you know that truth and justice will prevail. But it was not always so, and that is the thesis of Doug J. Swanson’s disturbing but well-documented book, Cult of Glory: The Bold and Brutal History of the Texas Rangers.
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He found his DaddyPaw’s young adulthood
In a box of letters from New Mexico
About fighting forest fires and building fence
To the stockyards at Magdalena
LogoSophia Magazine 