Most Of My Short Stories Are Fantasy.

I Was Only Kicking Down The Christmas Tree To Get The Star On Top.

The Gods Had Gone Away, And The Ritual Of The Religion Continued Senselessly, Uselessly.

Venice Was And Is Full Of Lost Places Where People Put Up For Sale The Last Worn Bits Of Their Souls, Hoping No One Will Buy.

And The Lesson Was This; Sit In The Sun, Head Down, Within A Prickly Vine, In A Flickery Light, Or Open Light, And The World Will Come To You. The Sky Will Come In Its Time, Bringing Rain, And The Earth Will Rise Through You, From Beneath, And Make You Rich And Make You Full.

Beware The Autumn People