What compels us to sit down with a pencil in hand and stare at a blank page until words slowly start to come? Why do we agonize over each letter and syllable, reading sentences over and over again until they feel “just right”? Why do we struggle to create things that we know others are dying to tear down? Because we love to. We love the rhythm of words that have been carefully arranged. We love...

Desmond threw open the heavy curtains covering the window. “Good lord!” A woman cried from her sofa, raising her arms to shield her eyes. “What is that burning light in the sky?!” “That, my lady, is called The Sun,” the manservant responded in a flat voice. “But, my god, Desmond, it’s so… bright!” The woman said. “Be a dear and turn it down just a touch, would you?” He raised an eyebrow...

The cat stares and licks its lips. A fat, gray ground squirrel moves slowly through the grass towards the feeder.
Step, step – wait.
Step, step – wait.
Its small black eyes shine as it looks from left to right, sensing danger but unable to find it.