BelongingMy older sister's blog
Blibby's BlogMy little sister's blog
Gixxer For ChristMy brother's blog
Grantian FlorilegiumDr. Grant: literary, bibliophile, wordsmithy, and professor
Blog and MablogPastor and professor in Moscow, Idaho
A Proverb A DayShort daily expositions and applications of a Proverb
The Evantine AbbeyMy former landlord, self-proclaimed futilitarian
Roots by the RiverThe elder Wilson, providing practical encouragement to Christian living
Christus RexHe's masculine during the week and feminine on Sundays
Trozzort's TalesGot married, cut travel time to church by 75%
Blog of NashThe Nashes like football and their kids
Joy in the Journey
Has cute kids.
Pointyshoes87Those funny stories aren't made up
Filled With TruthAdventures and thoughts of a Christian country girl
Danger BlogSeeing the glory of God in the ordinary
Sacra DoctrinaTheology and family of Joel Garver
A MinorCommunity-oriented blogger
This Classical LifeYoung family living the classical life
A Cup of RichFellow Celto-phile
Sir JakeHe's happily taken
UnrivenThe writer, student, and Chicago style pizza lover
Gulf CoastalBeside the sea
The High PostClever Christian chaps, triumvirate of family men
Wittenberg HallDiscussing Christianity and beer
Weighing GlorySomewhere chasing his hat
Down To A Sunless SeaWhen Florida and Minnesota collide
Crash Into MeNo problems with authority
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An Excerpt From A Story (in which are Aeoffyn and the Centaur)
The gray mare's hoofs stamped impatiently on the turf, anxious to leave the hushed shadows of the forest. On his other side the Centaur stood regally, his mouth set in a solemn line as his deep brown eyes gazed out into the purple valley under a twilight sky. The ancient hairs of his leafy beard drifted placidly over his chest in the cool evening air, and his large hands hung empty at his sides.
Aeoffyn squinted distrustingly over the sweeping valley, and over the dark shapes of the Welsh hills beyond at the remnants of the red sunset. He lived beyond those hills. Once, but that was long ago. These woods were his home now, but in their keeping he could stay no longer. No, the trees had grown increasingly silent, and could teach him their songs no more. Many of the forest creatures had departed, leaving a land and a time that held no more place or peace for them. But Aeoffyn could not follow them. His place was in the wide country before him, where the merry songs are songs of steel, and the hearth-places are burdened with sorrow.
"What is happening to this world? The people of these woods are fading like the late summer leaves, and in the hills and valleys folk cower with fear and parade with malice, and hope is dead."
Graebyrrn turned his heavy brows on his young friend. "The stewardship of this world has fallen into the hands of those of your race, man-son. War will come and go, racing like clouds driven before thunder, and just like the wind will pass on suddenly and be remembered no more. The fields will flower and cities will be built in time of peace, but always malice and goodness will meet at odds, and the clash of their arms will be such as shall change the countryside many times over. Then, in time, men too will pass away,- but I think their passing will be more heralded than ours."
"And what part am I to play in this weary tale?" Aeoffyn asked, looking into those ancient eyes deep with memory and wisdom and, he thought, a hint of mirth, one last time.
The Centaur placed his hand atop the boy's shoulder. "Life is short, my friend, and the Saxon axe hard. Seek out joy, my son, and drink deeply from the cup of life, that with proud head and quick blood you may quit yourself with honor in the day of your peril."
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 E l s e w h e r e
Scientists find bugs that eat waste and excrete petrol (link added 06.16.08)
Crude oil is being created from genetically modified bug excretions.
Read it
Pringles can designer buried in his work (link added 06.03.08)
Designer of the Pringles can was cremated and his remains kept in a Pringles can.
Read it
P o e t r y
Contented Wi' Little, And Cantie Wi' Mair - Robert Burns
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome Thought;
But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught.
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch daur touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blythe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the Deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae!
Come Ease or come Travail, come Pleasure or Pain,
My warst word is:- ' Welcome, and welcome again!'
S t o r y
R e a d i n g / R e a d
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