Something caught my eye; an old horseshoe nailed to the doorframe. I noticed that every door and window had a horseshoe similarly nailed above it. Most of the older houses in this area had a horseshoe over the doorway, so it wasn’t all that noteworthy at the time. However, typically the horseshoes are nailed to the outside of doorways, not the inside, and there was usually only one.
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Without a doubt, one of the finest hymn writers in Protestant Christianity, Isaac Watts was born in 1674, while his father was imprisoned for his nonconformist beliefs. Though often in ill health and clinically depressed, Isaac Watts inherited his father’s steadfast character; a trait which kept him strong through fierce criticism, church splits and other hardships.
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“Well, the Goat-Man is a half-man, half-goat monster who lives in the woods here in Swaggart County. They say if you see the Goat-Man, death is certain to follow by the next new moon. Folks have been seeing the Goat-Man.”
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As soon as the moon’s rays touched our skin, we changed. Wolfish hair replaced bare human skin. We went down on all fours as claws supplanted nails. We howled into the star-studded sky, repeating the ritual that our ancestors had practiced since the days when Vikings ruled the seas. We were wolves.
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yet he always sought to keep the middle ground between the factions. He was fond of saying “In necessary things, unity; in doubtful things, liberty; in all things, charity.”
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#FaithfulFriday
Charles Chauncey was one of the austere clergymen of what would one day become the United States of America. Born in 1592 in Hertfordshire, England, Chauncey was known as something of a trouble-maker in the church of England.
#FaithfulFriday
Lancelot Andrewes was an Anglican bishop of Winchester, and a very important theologian of the English reformation. He was the most important scholar on the committee…
I have to admit I was nervous; all the monsters and demons I’d faced up to now, and I was scared of a regular woman. “You wanna grab a burger at Granny’s tonight?”
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Just then, a blood-curdling scream tore through the library. Willow ran out of the ladies’ bathroom like the devil was after her.
“Whoa there, cowgirl, what’s the ruckus?” I asked.
“I looked in the mirror, and instead of my face, I saw this horrible, black monster face with red eyes!”
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.
“A man was found dead this morning, and…” the sheriff trailed off.
“We think it was a large canine,” said Julia.
“And you think I had something to do with it?” asked Walter.
“Well, there are some folks who are concerned, you being a werewolf and all,” said Sheriff Donne.
From the diary of Katherine Craig.
Dear Diary,
Today began about 6:30 AM, when my ears were assaulted by the unmistakable racket of my Pa playing bagpipes on the front lawn.
“Another hell-hole opened up on my mail route!” the mailman said excitedly.
“Great. Another one” said Conrad with exasperation. We were all the time having to close them things.
“You want me to get your magic ring from one of the most heavily guarded places in the universe?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
The task was a daunting one. Annwyn was a place of powerful, wicked gods, and hideous monsters. It was a place of terror beyond all comprehension.
“What if I told you that you could be one of the greatest magicians in the history of Britain?” queried the madman.
“I’d say you were mad,” said Morgana, chuckled.
“I’ve seen it. You will go down in legend.”
“I want you to steal the Apples of Inspiration.”
Robin nearly choked on his pipe smoke. “Do you realize that that tree only blooms once every seven hundred years? And the gods guard it jealously!”
At the water’s edge he saw a stunning woman playing the flute. Weeds were woven into her glossy, dark hair. She was submerged in the murky water from the waist down. Her delicate fingers skillfully danced upon the flute. Bobert was entranced.
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A pretty young hobgoblin maiden approached them.
“What can I get you two?” she asked with a smile.
“What I want ain’t on the menu, sweetheart,” said Bobert with a mischievous wink.
“I’m not taking special orders, buster,” she replied, placing her hands on her hips.
The creature drew a short sword and went to kill me. I rolled out of the way of his blade and rose to my feet. I drew a dagger from my belt as the creature charged at me. I should’ve run away, but I couldn’t let the thing hurt my lyre; it was my most valued possession. I slashed and stabbed at the thing, dodging his sword, trying to get at my instrument…
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I’ve basically dedicated my life to the pursuit of stories and story-telling. Without stories, everything falls apart. A lot of people try to dismiss fantasy as being escapist or childish. Well Tolkien himself said, “Fantasy is escapist and that is its glory.” You can never diminish the power of storytelling, no matter the genre.
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