I saw no future in hindsight.

She runs through San Francisco, past the drummers in the plaza, flanked by swat teams, and TV crews, and all this talk of snipers. She bears a torch that fuels contention, in the eyes of an unjust world. People look, but just see red, and she wants to join their fight. Passions boil, worlds collide; but there are handlers who divert her. Despite her best intentions, she can't bring herself to speak; because dreams can get derailed when you're veering left or right; and there's no future in hi...

She runs through San Francisco, past the drummers in the plaza, flanked by swat teams, and TV crews, and all this talk of snipers. She bears a torch that fuels contention, in the eyes of an unjust world. People look, but just see red, and she wants to join their fight. Passions boil, worlds collide; but there are handlers who divert her. Despite her best intentions, she can't bring herself to speak; because dreams can get derailed when you're veering left or right; and there's no future in hi...

A word escapes without warning, like a long chained lunatic on unmitigated impulse, hurtling through reputations. Radioactive. And after the initial blast passes from my lips, it slows like molasses, creeps disparagingly, like old bones in the rain, or a drunk at 3 am; wavering unsteady, lost and alone in the cold light of absurdity. A word now free floats across the clothesline, gets gnarled in the raspberry bush, is picked to ribbons by a crow until only a trace remains. But on my block is ...

She runs through San Francisco, past the drummers in the plaza, flanked by swat teams, and TV crews, and all this talk of snipers. She bears a torch that fuels contention, in the eyes of an unjust world. People look, but just see red, and she want to join their fight. Passions boil, and worlds collide; but there are handlers who divert her. And despite her best intentions, she can't bring herself to speak; because dreams can get derailed when you're veering left or right; and there's no futur...

She is a rose in early bloom, fully armed thorns, intact and ready. It's not her fault she's lovely as this. Who says she must endure adoring looks and envied stares? By God, she's going to put safety pins in those delicate petals, rusty safety pins, mind you. And maybe wear a black hood to stop the red from showing through. But the thorns may remain, fully armed, intact and ready. And if we still wish to gaze, she'll make sure they pierce our eyes, the way she pierced our hearts. You would t...

When Echoes Rise Prologue and Chapter One Sometimes it sneaks up on me when I’m least expecting it; I’ll turn a page in a book, hear a line in a radio song, or catch a certain image in a movie, and I’m fighting off those old feelings again. They rise up just beneath the surface and threaten to pull me back into the panic zone; so I struggle to stay afloat until they subside. Each time I emerge with a little more strength, a little more resistance, and someday these waters will calm enough to ...

CHAPTER ONE It was 1999, September, and I was also on the verge of a major life change. But this wasn’t like going away to school and simply transplanting my life in a new place; it was more like I’d undergone multiple amputations and I was going back to my own life missing these vital pieces. I was waiting for far too long on that day, too. Perhaps it is because of these similarities in circumstance that my journey through these memories starts on that particular day, at that particular mome...

CHAPTER TWO Not long before that day I had been Samantha Finn - normal kid with parents, enjoying the fun-filled days of my summer holiday, not paying any serious attention to the behaviour of the people around me. But then I didn’t have to, because back then I knew that I was only visiting. Visiting Delhaven was great. Having to stay there to live forever as Samantha Finn - orphan, was a completely different matter. Aunt Thelma and Uncle Earl’s house looked like all the others on Cullen Driv...

You pay a price for all that beauty That beckons through the frayed margins of your tempestuous soul. It finds fruition in each encounter with your steady hand, Nerves of steel, then, Blasting out moody skyscapes, Startling us all with your clear-eyed vision Of that which haunts. And in every rendition You raise these ephemeral ghosts of your imaginings, And hold them for posterity in cobalt captivity. But sometimes, An elemental part of you is lost, As if the paint had bled directly from you...