Whispers (Parts I - XX) Whispers (I) Archbishop Romero moved as quickly as his age, weight and the unruly purple robes would permit, down a long, shadowed and faux-columned corridor, scanning every frescoed alcove attentively for the appearance of the one man who would be able to help him. His sweat, in the humidity, oozed from his pores,


Coming into being The door exploded inward to the sound of rupturing wood and torn hinges. “Police! Throw down your weapons! Get down on the floor! Get down now! I moved in line behind the point men whose vests, close in front of my face, read, 'TACTICAL UNIT'. My movements were sluggish, the vest and and padding inhibiting me and


The unexplained Ed Ferguson, leaning at the counter in his apartment and downing a second, tall, cool glass of orange juice, didn't mind the slight hangover from the previous night's party. It was, after all, Sunday, and with no obligations other than a few personal errands such as laundry and a bit of grocery shopping, he was glad that he


“What the...?” Sam Turner rebounded from his inner musings and a sweat sprung from his forehead. His reaction – his foot slamming onto the brake pedal – was delayed and exaggerated. He realised his mistake immediately and released but, the effect was already in place. Had he not been lost in his thoughts, he would

The Reality

No dream can compare Marc Levesque did not much care for fantasy considering it to be mostly a waste of time especially since the woman who was the object of those intruding thoughts of intimacy, Patrice Charlebois, was likely beyond his reach. Still, lying in his darkened Québec City hotel room, listening to the annoying buzz of the

The long road home

I “What the hell is wrong with you, Danny Reid – you drunk? You damn near got me killed drivin' like that!” The man, Jack Hoskin, came around the front of his pickup, now stopped askew on the shoulder of the two lane highway, and pulled down the wide brim of his hat against the sand and hot wind off the

Sa Tanca

Sa Tanca (The field) A tale of Sardinia. Jacob looked at his mother insolently. “You're going to send me where for the summer?” His mother, Consuelo, habituated to his disrespect, answered simply and directly. “Your father and I have discussed this and it's going to happen if you like it or not, giovanotto. You are

Still and Again

Part I. Eric Sands was more than a little shaken and surprised when, turning from a discussion with a business colleague and heading slowly toward the bar across the grand ballroom styled meeting space booked by his company for the glitzy meet-and-greet, he spotted his ex-girlfriend, Shauna Morgan, in animate conversation with some men in

Urban legend

I. Patrick Stanley, amidst the noise and vibration of the work site, barely heard the shouts of his foreman but, looking up, he saw the stocky, heavily muscled, veteran of road construction pointing at his watch and then drawing a line across his neck: lunch time. Pat nodded and waved, acknowledging and, then, keeping his eyes open for the


A Drama in 3 Acts. Dramatis Personae: Roderigo; the King. Persephone; the Queen and carrier of the Royal blood. Sigismund; Captain of the Royal Guard and nephew to the King. Hospitaler; a friar of the Order. Ekhorn; a Councilor and nephew to the Queen. Ariadne; the younger Sister of the Queen. Various of the Royal Guards. Act 1. A


Canvas (I). "To whom does that carriage belong?" The carriage, as black as night and emblazoned on both sides with heraldic emblems, comes into view along the sunlit Rue Gaston Lefevre, rattling and creaking over the cobblestones, drawn by a splendid pair of ebony mares. It rushes to halt before the mayoral palace. Two footmen leap nimbly


Battle (I). Costantinopolis, Byzantium. Anno Domini 1472. My Dear Father, This battle is lost. For weeks, we have attempted to stave off the onrushing Ottoman horde but, our time, now, is at an end and the Holy City of St. Constantine, already in flames and stinking of death, will certainly see their depredations. In truth, here, on the


Arrival (I) The taxi whispers along the busy highway in the midst of the evening rush hour traffic. I sit in the back in silence, scarcely aware of the frantic headlights around me, lost in thoughts of my own. The taxi driver is babbling in some language on his cell phone and driving with one hand. The music that emanates from his little radio


Jackie (I) The Victoria Park subway platform at 6:00 in the evening is not a place where I enjoy being. It throngs with commuters, all manner of people, anxious to be on their way and return to the comfortable privacy and intimacy of their own homes. I stand close to a post and gaze, unseeing, over a sea of bobbing heads moving into the