Fledgeling, this is you being thrown from the nest.

Of course you will see the ground comng and ferar, and you will hit the dirt and ache, and think that your father is disappointed in you.

He is not disappointed at you. But he will throw you from these branches until you learn to fly.

Father, on the day of your passing I light Myrrh and drink crow tea. In whatever form you find yourself, know your time was not wasted, nor could it have been. Know that we remember you. Know that you were loved.

These are the days of black coffee and the scent of myrrh ( Read more... )

The industry of writing--good writing--aims to make us feel, and the deeper the feeling runs the more exquisite we consider the story to be. But the wide scope of the world writes out fiction as fancy. It's hard to live in a world where we can be shattered and not expected to grieve; people don't give credence to wounds obtained via means of ( Read more... )

I am Raven. I put my beak in the inkwell of the throat and I call out words I find there. I am here to take the stories which abandon you. I am here to pluck fables from the tall grass. You have seen my shadow in every corner of the globe ( Read more... )