Death and the LimoDeath and the Limo Death pulled up next to the girl in a white stretch limousine. He told her to get in, and she did. What choice had she? It was 2am, raining and Los Angeles was no place to be walking alone. She got in the front seat next to Death and looked over the limo’s interior. It was black leather and some kind of mahogany-esque wood.Death and the Limo
Death stayed very still as he pulled out from the kerb. He looked about 60, hair graying and receding, lines etched across his features. As he drove he twitched his upper lip making his moustache leap wildly like some kind of caterpillar that had nested there. The tai
HomeThe scent of cut grass played subtly across her senses. Sweet and fresh she could almost taste it. Turning onto her stomach she let the blades brush against her cheek. She drew in a deep breath trying to memorise the smell of the dark earth underneath her face. Sighing, she let her mind drift as the sun slowly browned her back. Her memory slid back, easing through the recollections gathering dust in the back of her skull. It was the Christmas holidays. Mulled wine warmed her throat and dulled her senses. Christmas was always like this, a blur of tastes and feelings overlying the undercurrent of disappointment and regret. Another yHome
The Silence Cat“The silence was deafening” It’s such a cliché to say that. I never had much time for people who relied on set expressions to describe their experiences. But that night it really was deafening. It’s the only description that encompasses the total lack of sound and how it can consume you until all you hear is a lack of sound. The silence becomes clairaudient.The Silence Cat
It wasn’t the type of silence that accompanies high drama, the kind that slams into the viewer of a bad TV soap after a gun has gone off and your favourite character slides to the ground with a badly acted oh of shock. It was more subtle than that, true silence. It
Word PictureThe leather couch holds my mother. 5'4" and still dying her hair so she looks like she's ten years younger. A businesswoman, hostess, loving mother.Word Picture
And wife, loving wife.
And him, lying on a hospice bed, a hospital bed for the dead who still breathe. Heroes are born daily, but this one is worth living, worth loving. At 6'2", here's a man you can respect.
Lying on a bed, labored breathing. Labored everything. Across the room, a TV's going in and out, because they gave up cable when he took this job. The job loved most, paid least.
The cancer's around his heart. The heart that taught
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"My dear fellow, who will let you?"
"That's not the point. The point is, who will stop me?"
~Ayn Rand
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A good photograph is knowing where to stand
- Ansel Adams
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