As well all know, subways are underground transport lines. They move groups of busy strangers from place to place. Home to work. Work to home. Here to there and back again. Subways are endless grids of stops and starts. So be advised, they are not social places. Do not smile at strangers—they might think you’re […]
Rhonda saw the strangest sight during her evening run. A Long Brown Snake reposed at a tiny table, set for tea just off the woodland path. He invited Rhonda to join him.
I received an email from an editor a little while ago. She said the piece I submitted “holds promise,” and/or “has merit,” but she didn’t think it was quite right for her publication at this time.
There was a stand of rosebushes at the end of the lake, in furious bloom. The dark pink kind with yellow centers, like the ones you planted at home. Their sweet scent was thick on the breeze.
This is a reminder that it’s not too late.
Remember the minutes, the hours and the days will pass whether you do “that thing” or not. It is the moment by moment choices we make that move us forward.
A man doesn’t plant a tree for himself. He plants it for posterity—Alexander Smith. Earlier today, Glad Tidings church in Moncton, New Brunswick, dedicated a green space on its property to the memory of three fallen RCMP officers killed in the line of duty June 4, 2014. They were killed by a lone gunman in the city’s north end, where the church is situated.
Dear New Brunswick: I am ashamed to tell you that people have been saying terrible things today, my love. They say you’ve made so many ill-thought decisions, leaving you poor and without status in our country and in the world.
A couple of weeks ago I woke one morning after dreaming about houses. I dreamed that in addition to the house we own currently, my husband and I bought an additional house. It was the first house we ever owned and lived in for nine years in another community.
Mr. Milner was my grade four teacher and he had the loveliest handwriting. On the chalkboard, I admired the way he wrote in flowing, classical strokes and perfectly straight lines. By grade nine, when I had him as a supply teacher in science class, I didn’t worry so much about perfection.
Do you wonder what Christmas is all about sometimes? Other than a pile of self-indulgent gifts, high-caloric intake and a credit card bill to choke on in January, I mean? I’m about to tell you.
