The Black Candle

Life was good except for―oh, yes, there was always an except.

Platitudes or otherwise, there were no words to ease the agony of living.

Fancy feathers make peacocks, but you pluck them and see what's left.

And, like the prodigal son, he had returned broken in body and also in mind to the house where he had been born, and he and his child had been welcomed with open arms.

She's only got eight fingers but she's got them stuck in all kinds of pies, and she keeps her thumbs bare for testing new ones.

Such love is bound to suffer, because it will wake up one day.

Who wanted to live to a hundred and one? Who wanted to go on living at all at times?

Anyway, as they say, where there's life, there's hope. So let us eat.

Try not to worry, for time is a great healer.' Such words were futile.