Come, lie with me in the garden… As the evening pours a gentle, silken breeze across our skins, and the flowers shine jewel-bright in borders, bees buzz, scent spills, oh, come and breathe it in. Hear the swifts shrieking under arching skies, still further up, the clouds cast shapes and shadows in constant flux –…
Dear Mr Hemingway, You have much to answer for! As a writer, I utterly understand your comment that it’s easy to write – you just sit down at a typewriter (or laptop) and bleed (or pixel, which is probably a less messy process, not being tangled up in ribbons and the smudgy-everywhereiness of actual INK)…
I shift uncomfortably, jammed between boxes and packing crates, my limbs tangled into ratchet-ribbons holding everything down, and anxious sweat slicks across my brow and cheeks, stinging my eyes, trickling down my neck and soaking my t-shirt.
I’m lying absolutely still next to my sleeping son, adrift in my thoughts when I notice his silhouette appearing around the corner, shrouded in darkness and nighttime haze.
“You have no idea how hard this is to write, or how badly I’m shaking that I can barely form the words, but something awful has happened and I have to leave you…this…everything.
Nearly everyone comes to us by gift-card at first. It’s okay – we understand. And it doesn’t matter, because we’ve rapidly built a crowd of regulars, who come time after time to taste the adventure. But I won’t bore you with hard-sell – you’re already through the door, and that’s the most vital step.
