Endangered
That all familiar odor. When the foulbrood comes, the hive is inevitably lost. That is known
Sherlock Holmes Redux
Mr. Bones held the broken pencil up to the early morning light coming through his science
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The Soul Architect
Hands of the Soul Architect Weave threads of flesh and silver, His work is never done
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A Bird in the hand
He had those eyes, those Hugh Grant eyes. Eyes that crinkled at the corners, mischievous, but
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Sunday Best
Sunday mornings. Everyone at my house dreaded them, except my mother. I abhorred going to church.