D. J. Reddall
Bio
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Stories (272/0)
Cold Vigil
My father, the mountain, speaks to me. His voice makes my own sound like the excited pica’s. Thunder will talk with him, but never argue. Many come to talk with my father, to look at him and think. Some come to my father looking for gold or other shining children of the earth. Their flesh is sour and makes me feel tired and confused.
By D. J. Reddall4 months ago in Fiction
- Top Story - January 2024
A Spirit That Fears NothingTop Story - January 2024
There are many sound reasons to repudiate professional sport in general and NHL hockey in particular. After all, the game has been as utterly defiled by cynical, avaricious late-stage capitalism as every other aspect of contemporary existence. The ordinary fan is incessantly encouraged by marketers and advertisers to gamble, guzzle alcoholic beverages and devour kilograms of fast food, which is a bald oxymoron if you contemplate it for a moment. Salaries are stratospherically inflated, as are ticket prices, and what passes for discourse generated by the participants in, and commentators upon, the game is so full of cliches and verbal false limbs that Orwell’s ghost will never stop screaming.
By D. J. Reddall4 months ago in Unbalanced