Moments at Gol: Chapter 8 – Chekov
He didn’t look like the man that Chekov knew. No, it was worse than that. Much worse. He did look like the man that Chekov knew, but like a doppelganger, like some kind of figment…
Year: 2020
Just Wait and See: Chapter 8
~ by M. C. Pehrson Each day, the sun lingered a bit longer, warming the garden soil. Uncle Lars started up the tractor and began to plow. Soon a new crop was sprouting, and it…
Spring of the Fairy Dragons
The moment had finally arrived, and every fairy was busy tending to the chosen flowers in the meadow. This long-awaited time only occurred once every 500 years, and its importance to the world was beyond…
How I Came to Grips with Not Being Normal
"I read your last blog and what you said about being sixteen and asking yourself 'why do I have to have my beliefs?' resonated with me. I'd love to read how you came to terms…
Moments at Gol: Chapter 7 – Uhura
He was sitting on his bed when Uhura entered the room, a padd in his hands and his eyes focused intently on the writing on its surface. But no. As she stepped forward, she realised…
Just Wait and See: Chapter 7
~ by M. C. Pehrson Papa and Christina Kester were now husband and wife. On the little farm, Emma loved waking up to a rooster crowing and finding herself high up in a cozy attic…
Christ in a Waiting Room: An Early Spring Spiritual Epiphany
Christ comes to us in strange ways, in blessedly strange ways. I remember a day during the strange liminal space somewhere between St. Valentine’s Day and Lent, when the air still bites of winter but…
The Dala’il al Kharat and Islamic Spiritual Tradition
Over twenty years ago I converted to Islam with a group of Sufis in California with whom I shared many spiritual practices. We prayed together, fasted Ramadan together, and recited together which is called dhikr. …
The Ghost Book
~ by Charles A. Coulombe In midst of all, have I learned at last,present is embedded in the past.Sages say that the tree is bentas the seedling is, by nature, sent. Hunting, riding, friends I…
A Writer’s Life
I scrawl my scattered dreams on screeds of paper. They drift and tumble about me like fading weeds in the wind… shallow rooted, stunted and unfinished. Then you step in. Scarred hands catch, to sift…