Poem: The Crossroads

Down in the Mississippi delta
The trees weep on the wind
Momma’s tell their babies
They’re weeping for souls
Of those who lived in sin

The ramblers and wanders
Who were lost not looking to be found
Traveling to the ends of the earth
Found themselves discovered
At a four point crossroads

Short Story: Dinner with the Devil

He’d used his favorite santoku knife to cut his wrists in the kitchen of his restaurant.

His reviews had been going downhill for years. He was trying to keep up with the demand to create something new and something extraordinary. It was never enough. Spending all his time cooking, he couldn’t do what he loved—traveling the world to new places and trying more cuisine—the lifeblood of his creativity.

The last review was the final straw. A two-word headline—Has Been—followed by less than a hundred and fifty word write up. In his prime, he’d get the cover of magazines and entire feature write-ups.

He was tired. No longer seeming worth it, he’d used his tools on himself. Blades so sharp he hadn’t even felt a cut.

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