Colleen walked through the door of Grandma’s Own Donut at six and was assaulted by a wave of cold air tinged with cinnamon and raspberry. As usual, Vinnie had the air conditioning on way too high. Colleen wished she had brought a sweatshirt.
Jed was lost. He was scouring the Anglesey countryside around the village of Llanddaniel, in search of the Neolithic burial chamber, Bryn Celli Ddu.
Feels strange writing like this: the old-fashioned way; pen on paper. Kind of funny, when I think about it. Here I am, surrounded by the most advanced tech imaginable on a research base at the foot on Mons Olympus, and I’m writing down my thoughts in a leather-bound journal with an ink pen. It’s really beautiful. I love the rich smell of the leather and the thick, coarse pages. Little sister always knows how to pick the perfect gift.
The woods were far too quiet for the time of day. Not a single bird sang from a single tree; not a paw moved on the dead-leaf floor. It was out there, somewhere.
‘Let’s see you, then,’ I whispered, then berated myself for doing so. Any sound was too loud.
Stories are born from human virtues and frailties, and the skill to weave these concepts into a tapestry which entertains and inspires: themes which freeze the blood and warm the heart. In this August 2014 issue I have focused on sometimes quirky aspects of virtue: from frightening forgiveness to theurgical temperance; from daredevil diligence to […]