The place closest to my heart in the whole of Switzerland is the Monastery of Einsiedeln. “Einsiedeln” is a German word for “hermitage.” Surrounded by a dark, mysterious forest, situated near a sce…
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.” — Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
These opening lines to Dickens’ novel A Tale of Two Cities are brilliant. It could be said that, right there, is the…
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The Grand High Goblin – Obadiah Fingletook Following on from my previous post A Timeless Tale, I have much pleasure in presenting another from my much maligned fantasy anthology Goblin Tales.…
The Grand High Goblin – Obadiah Fingletook
These are stories you can so very easily get lost in as you accompany the goblin brothers on their adventures. Now instead of moving on as many of you normally do, why not do me the courtesy of actually reading the tale. You never know, it might even make you smile…
Held for Ransom
In which Globular Van der Graff, (Glob), Makepeace Terranova (Make), Byzantine Du Lac (Byz), Eponymous Tringthicky (Mous) and finally, curmudgeonly old Neopol Stranglethigh (Neo), set out on a quest to rescue the grand high goblin, Obadiah Fingletook.
A loud knock on the goblin brother’s front door an hour before dawn, one day in early spring, woke Glob from a deep sleep…
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“Softly the evening came.
The sun from the western horizon
Like a magician extended his golden wand o’er the landscape;
Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
Seemed all on fire at the touch,
and melted and mingled together.”
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Death has been visiting my life a lot in this past year. During those times, I have frequently heard Mary Elizabeth Frye’s well-known poem, “Do No Stand At My Grave and Weep.”
This morning as I was lolling abed, I began naming my departed-beloveds in my mind, calling their sweet faces to mind and silently speaking their names one by one. This is one of the ways I honor them and deal with their absence. In the midst of that familiar ritual, I “heard” a distinct voice speaking into my mind. This is what it said.
Now, Honey. You just go ahead and stand at my grave and weep. As a matter of fact, you could fall to the ground if you wanted to. If there’s snow or mud, no matter — you can always get that funeral suit cleaned later on.
Or you could forego the suit altogether. Wear…
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One of my all time literary heroes – Eric Blair aka George Orwell 1903 -1950
Probably not. All that any of us who are serious about what we do can ever hope for is to keep on writing. Most of us are lucky if we make a few pounds/dollars per year. Very few ever achieve fame and fortune. J.K.Rowling immediately springs to mind as an obvious modern day exception to the rule.
Even once you have shuffled off this mortal coil, there are still no guarantees of fame, despite the world’s book shelves being full to overflowing with dust covered books penned by dead writers. But then again back here in the land of the living, so is the list of those who were never read, or are ever likely to be by all accounts, despite the majority of them being gifted writers.
But will anything I write do…
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