Like the leaf gently swaying in the breeze, we fall. Before we settle, we are blown about by the changing winds, trampled by unconcerned feet, gradually disappearing into ourselves as the decaying leaf disappears into the ground.
Everything falls, you see. Yet, in death, the leaf — without lament — provides nutrients to replenish the tree—something new rises. The leaf lives again in the tree.
Are we dead inside?
Can we live again?
Will we live again?
We fall. Broken physically, emotionally, or spiritually, we rise. Many of us rise never to find wholeness. Something new but sad rises. …
The swarming gnats appear like dust motes dancing on the sunbeams. In a circular pattern, dancing ever tighter like the planets around the sun, the males and females prepare to mate. They look so busy and so active, though, from my perspective, their purpose is unknown. The designer of designs knows. Locked in the gnat's DNA, messages are sent and received that will perpetuate their way.
A short time and then the gnats are gone, not to be seen for another season. To me, their disappearance has no rhyme or reason.
In many ways, people are like gnats. So many…
Today thousands of M-dium writers report mysteriously losing hundreds — some writers thousands — of their followers on the ever-growing online publication not to be mentioned by name in this story.
But, hey, even I like to get the coveted Chosen for Further Distribution award. So let's keep the pub anonymous to protect my innocence.
One financial analyst for Falling Star Financials stated, “This drop in followers resembles the stock market crash after the housing market bubble burst in 2008. The question on our minds at Falling Star, “Will they ever turn to a Bull readership again?”
The Editor and…
In recent news, all have heard about Chick-Fil-A’s super-secret sauce shortage. The company has resorted to limiting one packet per family.
At the corporate headquarters in Atlanta, everyone is hush-hush about the logistical nightmare of shipping more sauce to their local restaurants.
One store manager complained, “Durn took two hours to get through the customer support hotline. There is nothing worse than the look of disappointment on little Liam or Ava's face when they realize they don’t have enough sauce to cover their six-piece chicken nuggets. …
At the point of tears, finally, I arrive.
Here for a moment, maybe two.
Who knows how long?
Though the present is eternity.
Awareness is fragile like a flickering candle;
so quickly extinguished by the subtle breeze.
Distracted by the will-o-wisps,
the shifting winds carry me.
The pain of losing my glimmer of bliss,
I am deeply amiss.
The dark plague of regret,
with imagined foresight filled with frets,
my mind is enthralled.
The soft glow rises from the depths of my heart.
Imago Dei lifts my eyes far above the shimmering stars.
With a smile and a knowing, the Divine sets my heart aglow.
A whisper blows…
The Old Toad’s Personal Account of The Events
While out for my afternoon drive in my eco-friendly Tesla Model X, I, the Editor-in-Chief at the Whole Toad News Service, discovered many Americans' fuelish and hysterical behavior because of a self-inflicted gas crisis.
At every street corner, lines formed out into the streets blocking traffic. In my current assignment, every street corner has a gas station. Lines upon lines of panicked gas guzzlers burning what fuel is left in the tank and pouring carbon into the atmosphere, angrily and impatiently waiting so they can fill up. …
To block out the invasion of light, Pearson squinted so tightly tears flowed from his tear ducts. With the shades down and the covers pulled over his head, the morning’s glow lit up the room to interrupt his much-needed sleep. The sunlight reflected off the still waters to magnify the light to what seemed like midday brightness.
At the time, this single-bedroom cottage on the Currituck Sound was the only place available for my needed privacy. The off-season price for this Air BNB was too reasonable to refuse, but who in their right mind builds the only bedroom facing east…
The white chalky dust gracefully floated around in the sunlight like dancing ballerinas. The sledgehammer's continual crash against the water-damaged drywall sent plumes of fresh dust rising into the air.
Jimmy breathed heavily as the sweat rolled off his drenched head onto his face and down his neck. Perspiration spots blotted his armpits. Jimmy lowered the sledgehammer and paused, “Ah-AH-choo.”
James Brannigan Senior, Jimmy’s dad, paused, turned to look at his son, chuckled, then shook his head. “I told you to wear a mask. We have several M95’s in the truck. Home renovation is dirty work.”
Jimmy grabbed a paper…
From behind the curtain of his drunken rage, I saw his broken and damaged heart. The taste of Imperial whiskey burned on his tongue as he lashed it like a whip cutting deep. His words short on praise and long on criticism. I longed for his love and approval.
On rare occasions, his innocent little boy would come out for a glimpse. Too late, the damage done. My soul traumatized; I have struggled for wholeness my whole life.
He died in 2004. My dad is long deceased, dust. Yet, I still seek his approval, even if it comes from elsewhere…
Writer, philosopher, humorist, observer of life, an all-around lovable guy.