Flashing light

It was a warm spring day as so many were in these parts, a fine morning for a walk through the hilly pasturelands. The sun blazed high above, but comfortably so at these elevated altitudes. A fresh spring breeze blew softly through the seas of grass below, invigorating the three excited youths that had appeared but moments before. The mercurial wind caressed their silvery golden locks and silken finery with its gentle kiss, highlighting the exquisite artistry of the youth’s attire. The abstract designs

Turning with spots of retina burn flashing like railway crossing lights before his eyes. Turning with a knot in his gut and his heart in his mouth. Turning to see another perfect vista. Another cosy French hamlet, coils of smoke snaking into the air from cottages with thatched rooves, made golden in the

The curtains of the manor were pulled tight, as they always were. No light from the outside world could make its way inside. The only light coming from the sconces on the wall, dimmed down to a more pleasant yellow lighting. The manor itself was quiet, with only a few servants fully awake to prepare the manor for the evening hours, while the others were still rising from their morning slumber. As a vampire, activity in the manor began with the setting of the sun. Now there was simply a lazy atmosphere

permanent light from the Lighthouse. The Lighthouse as a

hope otherwise, she needed ay to the main road. But so far, all she could see was the tress on either side; mile after mile. Nor does the light shine through the

Upon entry through the threshold of the bubbling slate grey front door of my run-down, colonial style home into the marshmallow warmth of the living room, all was silent except for the crackling of dying embers breathing their last breath in the soot covered 1991 Jotul wood burning stove. The family room remained just as it had been left with not a single object disturbed in the time passed. The walls were still the same shade of elephant skin gray that they had been for the past ten years, as were

Dylan Thomas Dylan Thomas was born on October 27, 1914 in Swansea, Wales. His father was a teacher and his mother was a housewife. Thomas was a sickly child who had a slightly introverted personality and shied away from school. He didn’t do well in math or science, but excelled in Reading and English. He left school at age 17 to become a journalist. In November of 1934, at age 20, he moved to London to continue to pursue a career in writing. His first collection of poems called 18 Poems

PROLOGUE In the shadowy depths, in the heart of a rocky mountain, where no human being has ever set foot, the only audible noise is the sound emitted by the waves that crash on the rocks and that echoes through the wind. The delicate light of spontaneous little flames, that from the top of the cave descend in a spiral, reveals a small cavity carved into the rock. The bottom part of the cave gets filled with the water of the ocean. A subtle filament of crystal water rises up, towards the center

All I want is to keep my thoughts in the stars. I’ve never really just looked at the stars, but then again, I’ve never lived in a place where I could just look at the stars. Cities and lights always blocked out the night sky and it’s wonders. Tonight is perfect for star watching without the moon or a single cloud in the sky. I wonder what’s out there, beyond the atmosphere away from all this chaos and the Angelic Order. Is there peace

To make it worse, the old lights were flickering too. As I passed by the window near my door, my peripheral vision caught a ghastly white figure, a faceless transparent pale woman, who seemed like she was flickering. It was almost as her physical presence was there and at the same