Fiction author • Dog mom • Castaway
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Whilst Lysander drew breath, all manner of beasts were relegated to the Highlands, leaving the gentle to inherit the Village. In gratitude, the Meadows erupted with vitality, a thousand shades of florid splendour peacocking for the merriment of Men and Dwarves alike.
By CJ Miller2 years ago in Fiction
On a blustery Tuesday in mid-December, Charles Murphy cracks open the door of his brownstone to find three people waiting upon the welcome mat.
The woman in the alley is dying and I have no way to save her. A tabby, lean and riddled with bald patches, slinks into her lap, his head coming to rest against her crumpled frame. As her breathing grows shallow, he begins to mew, quiet and mournful.
Come the spring of 1907, I entered this world as Eugene Douglas, cheerfully disposed and possessed of enthusiasm for living. Much to society's chagrin, I did not wait for permission to hold my head high; dignity is a right, a lesson I learned early and apply liberally.
Edith began her nasty little hobby soon after we lost our daughter. Like many things that come to destroy a life, it started off innocently enough.
In a distant era known only to Mother Earth, there lived a boy who was loving towards creatures mighty and small. Aquinnah, or land under the hill, is where he made his home. Its Clay Cliffs have belonged to his Tribe, the Wampanoag, for thousands of years.
Naomi peers through a gap in the curtains, one protective hand tracing the swell of her belly. Tonight's skyline is a New England cliché, its beauty oblivious to the struggles of mankind below.