Mist

There is a golden mist that clings to the hills of the Faroe Islands. It presses against her face as she stands, barefoot on the autumn grass, near the rim of a cliff. It is like nothing she has ever witnessed, and she trembles in the face of such splendor. She pulls her lilac sweater… Continue reading Mist

Slow Mornings, a Ramble

For someone who longs to be writer as I do, I have one tragic flaw...I don't write. It is ridiculous really. On every "about me" paper, personality test, random questionnaire-you name it- I have written the word "Writing" under the hobby section. Writing, Really? But isn't a writer supposed to...you know, write? Yet somehow here… Continue reading Slow Mornings, a Ramble