People will kill you over time, and how they'll kill you is with tiny, harmless phrases, like 'be realistic.' - Dylan Moran

"I hurried over to Seabright’s. There was a little square counter, heaped with calicoes and other gear, except a small space clear for measuring, with the yards tacked off with brass tacks."

This was the beginning of the third act unfortunately you had been absent for the first two. You listened to her invention of paranoia and suspicion complete with her implausible plot twists and fictions. You were wrestling with the fact that so many of the actors were missing names and faces in her little fantasy drama. This woman seemed like the rotten apple as quixotic as she was fetching. She held mad court over you, you give her your full consideration no matter how derisory her story got; you were prisoner to her charms.

I have read of a man who described his condition as “neither ill nor well”. I can hardly begin to explain how completely I related to and understood that man. But even more amazing to me than the fact that I related to him on that particular level, was the fact that he lived in the time of Christ. There is indeed a common strain of human nature that connects all men. Please allow me to share my thoughts on this two thousand year connection.

"What's wrong with her? Is it, is it, you know permanent?" He looked up nervously at the witch doctor. "She's been a zombie for one year now, this behaviour just isn't normal."

The witch doctor really felt for the father. The stigma attached to this type of illness was horrifying. She knew that many would blame the family; she knew that they weren't to be blamed. There was no way around it, she had to tell him the terrible news.

"I'm sorry Mr. Slain. There's no easy way to say this. Your daughter is a ..... a..... a vegetarian."

Cathy had dreamed of this her whole life. She got the lead in the community theatre production of "Wicked."

"If I didn't get the part, I'm glad it was you," said Michelle, her understudy, one night after rehearsal. "You know costume fittings are next week, right? I can't wait to see how you look in the dress for the closing number!"


The next week after they had run through several scenes, the cast took a break for the costume fittings. Cathy tried on the "dress". It fit like a glove like it was tailored for her.

Liz, the seamstress, said, "Well, that is a perfect fit! I'm glad, this one is a rental, I can't do any alterations to it. So, you better not gain an ounce!"

"I won't," Cathy said.

Some days, everything goes alright, but others, it's like the world has a vendetta against me. Some days, I want to smile, because I'll be alright. Some days I want to jam a knife in someone's eye. The world has a penchant for beating down any difference, any spirit, anything that makes someone smile.

And then there's me.

A winding road I’ve traveled,
Through the valley to the peaks
Wondering if I ever did succeed,
That which man forever seeks.

I’ve felt no real importance,
As I traveled this long road,
Never have convinced myself
I picked to bear the proper load.

Fast falling footsteps were coming closer to my room and I heard the screams of my pleading mother. The floorboards of our mansion creaked heavily under the men's boots as they ran towards my room. They were coming for me, I knew it. Strangely I wasn't scared at all, but nevertheless I hid in a dark dusty corner in my chamber. I didn't want to go, not yet at least. I heard a high pitched scream from my mother and I knew what had befallen her. A quick stab in the chest from one of the men and she was lying on our polished wooden floor.

My father had died four years ago and we were to fend for ourselves; my mother, our maids, butlers and myself.

These two worlds collide
on All Hallow's Eve;
each world holds on tight
to what it believes.

The dwellers of darkness,
forced to live in the light,
for that terrible, long
and hair-raising night.

I have always believed that gas stations are the pinnacle of American innovation. Well, I don't know if the first gas station was in America, but even so. A million little stops along the highway of life to refuel, re-try. I feel like there's no judgment in gas stations. You can come in wearing your pajamas and buy a pack of hostess cupcakes and no one will look at you twice.

So, there we are: Five of us, in the back of a truck, whooping in the wind like kids should do in the summer. Some of us still sport chocolate on our lips and we hold empty wrappers in our hands.

I never believed in the supernatural. I was always skeptical of ghost stories. I chalked them up to just pure imagination. People can make their own monsters after all. In fact there are countless studies on the subject which only further serves to validate my beliefs. My skeptical point of view was met with open criticism from my friends who were very superstitious. They would tell scary stories at sleep overs and would succeed in terrifying each other. When they became flustered they would look like a flock of pigeons all riled up and afraid of their own shadows. To the best of their ability they would try to frighten me, but being the skeptic that I was it took a lot to scare me. So after what felt like agonizing hours I would finally relent and play along with them. Years past and my skepticism managed to stick with me.