Just one song was asked of me
One song, and nothing more
But I hadn't sung in years, you see
For me, music had died long before

But now music was required
To set this wee soul to dreaming
I couldn't say no to those small blue eyes
With hope and innocence beaming

So I searched my memory
To find something suitable to sing
One lullaby came back to me
But I was afraid to begin

I hadn't sung it in so very long
That I wasn't even sure I knew how

   Jimenitz sat in the security room, watching Luther's ever move on a TV connected to the cameras in his cell. He had been tirelessly observing his insane prisoners.

   Dale Irving, who had watched for a while but had bored of it quickly, was sitting on a chair beside his chief, absorbed by something on his iphone.

  Suddenly Jimenitz nudged him. "Look, Dale."

  Dale's eyes slowly moved up toward the screen. His mind was on the text he was typing out on his phone. Then it clattered to the floor as he stared at Luther.

       Bitter wind was tugging at Adelaide’s hood and lashing her hair round her face. She was sitting in front of Lawrence on a grey warmblood. He was plunging through the deep drifts of snow at a great pace and smoothly passing over rifts and inclines of the land. Lawrence had both hands on the reigns while supporting Adelaide by his arms.  The saddle on which they sat was large and made of fine leather. It was black and simple but strongly made. Adelaide had both her feet secured to the stirrups by straps that Cosmas had attached.

Excerpt: The Lighthouse Keeper's Wife
(sequel to Merry Taylor on Cape Cod)

"Ye say the air suddenly thickened and ye couldnae breathe?" Dulcan stared at him like he was crazy.
Varian looked away and drew a deep breath. They sat in an old tower. The windows had broken out long ago, and vines crept inside the stone room. But Dulcan insisted it was as solid as the day it had been built.
Some of the lairds weren't so sure. Benvahr and Sotar especially kept shifting their feet and looking at the floor, as if they expected it to crumble at any second.

(my apricotpie farewell)
We met under the grove
Bringing shade, bringing bright,
Laughing sadly or studying weakness with might.
Some bring their blindness, others their sight,
But the grove where we met never changed.
We cried the same joys and we held the same loss,
We raised different voice, yet obeyed the same God.
Our hates and our loves explored paths on one chase,
And the trees overhead lent us beautiful grace.
We helped others fall up in the grove.
We met under the grove in drabs of such hue

I am writing this essay on the evening of my twenty-fourth birthday.

What does that have to do with the fate of Apricotpie? Probably nothing; I just thought I’d mention it. Yet, I must say, that during my birthday and the days leading up to it, I thought much on Apricotpie.