Ghost Stories For The Wilderness Impaired. This night is full of gunshots. They only last a few seconds. The time it takes my hand. To feel your chest, inhale, exhale. I imagine your last breath. Sirens are heard, near. Of blue, red upon our bedroom wall. Here, we sleep between gunshots. I can hear your breaths. From your first until now.

Blogging on feminism, medieval studies, teaching and learning. If Margery Kempe Were Your Student. If Margery Kempe were your student, this poor creature would be the first person to raise her hand in every lecture, and would without fail email you afterwards to ask extra questions. If Margery Kempe were your student, the colleague wh.

They say you either die a hero. Or live long enough to see yourself become a villain. But when a man lives as both. You rode through the night. When a man lived as you did. He is bound to join the fallen. In the halls of my brain. You made me who I am. Thank you is not enough.

About The Otherwiser and Rights. This whirlwind demands I read it. Intuition shakes and tears up. Leaving messes we send prayers up. Locked to a bed or driving long.

The crazy and never ending adventures of motherhood. All the other mothers are in the exact same place you are. Guess what? Nursing an older baby. Currently treating with coconut oil and lavender EO. Whips his head around to watch brother or the dog and then smiles and latches back on. Nursing probably takes longer to get a full session in because of the constant distract.

They just think they do. In a way, I guess you could say that I hate silence and fight comfort in it just the same. The things within the silence keep me from feeling the pain that silence brings. His eyes highlighted by deep bruises. To mark the hours of sleep he loses.