Musings From A Park Bench
I saw a man in the park the other day claiming that he was God. He was yelling loudly at some park employees looking in a pond for some lost jewelry. “It’s in the treasury!” He proclaimed. “I’m the Lord!” Even the ducks looked perturbed.
I never know what to do in these situations, except to take my cue from our government and try to pretend it isn’t happening. However, I do remember thinking, “I always thought the Holy Father would be better dressed than that.” Maybe a suit and tie? Or long flowing robes? Even a beard? This was the same day I had car trouble, so perhaps I shouldn’t have judged so harshly. God would’ve been of more use to me that day If he had been a mechanic, not a screaming man I hurried to avoid. Mysterious ways, I guess.
Poe as a Gardener
One singular daffodilly did,
Poke up its little yellow head
In the second month of the year,
And though the clime was drear, crisped, withered and sear,
The little dear brought some cheer to my demeanor.
In the parlor of the manor, in this very haunted house,
Daffodilly hunted by the music of the spheres
Vivacious, and insatiable.
The Drowning House
by John Sibley Williams
Review by Julie Carpenter
I once had a dream that I lived in a huge, malevolent, haunted house. The house was a Victorian. Initially, I was charmed but the house soon became violent, flinging objects at my head, turning stairs into slides. Dream Me knew that if I didn’t come to terms with the spirits in the house, it would kill me, but dream logic demanded that I remain in the house. Ultimately, I took a terrifying trip to the graveyard to speak with the ghosts of two children who died there. They needed to be avenged, and more than that, they needed to be heard.