Read the article here.

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More details and the competition page can be accessed here.

For round 1, entrants were placed into groups (there were many, many groups) and each group had a brief of sorts for their story. I was in group 93, and the brief was:

• Genre: Drama
• Subject: Exclusivity
• Character: Swim Instructor
• Max: 2,500 words

We had about 8 days to complete and submit the stories.

Below is my entry and I would love to read your feedback…

Reflections in Water

The gavel struck the sound block, emphatically and with a finality I didn’t feel. It created a subdued but authoritative hardwood-on-hardwood sound that swept through the hushed courtroom. Unlike any number of popular courtroom TV and movie dramas released over the last few decades, the hush endured. There were no emphatic cheers of celebration, no screams of denial at the delivered verdict and no shouted threats of violence in response to a perceived injustice.

A young girl had been killed, a child, and no judgement in court would bring her back. No cheers, screams or shouts could change that either.

The verdict, issued immediately before the rap of the gavel, had taken longer to be processed by my distraught mind. Had I heard the judge correctly? ‘Not guilty’? He had made a terrible mistake. Of course I was guilty. How could I not be? I had been driving. I had struck the girl, Liliana. I had killed her as surely as that afternoon had rained and lightning streaked across the sky.

I glanced across at the little girl’s family. A few looked back at me. The father had watered eyes that refused to spill their swelling drops. His lips trembled as he tried to contain his grief.

An older brother, I believe, starred at me with a barely contained fury. Rage radiated from him and charged the air nearby in an almost perceptible shimmer.

The others; a mother, a sister, perhaps a family friend, grandparents, slowly stood and embraced momentarily. They shared a fragile, familial love that I had forever tarnished and twisted into a broken version of its previous self.

I sat and waited for the room to empty, in much the same pose I had held throughout the proceedings. My hands remained pressed together, pointing floorward, with elbows propped on knees that had quivered throughout the 15 minute judgement hearing. I again looked past trembling hands to the droplets of tears that had splattered to the floor. Patterns had formed like droplets of blood from cruel injuries.

A guard quietly approached and gently, but forcefully, aided me to my feet and guided me from the room. As I stepped beyond the threshold and into a faded wood-panelled hallway, I wavered slightly on leaden feet and braced myself against the doorframe. The guard released me and, after his rough hands had withdrawn their momentary support, he whispered, “murderer”.

*

The psychiatrist’s room was clean, professional without being cold, but still lacking warmth. I was invited in, but strongly directed here by the court. The only place I felt welcome these days was within my own fractured mind, but I didn’t want to be there either.

This was a place of analysis, investigation and diagnosis, but I was as excluded from this world as I have been anywhere else. I was a broken equation to be solved, nothing more.

Today, for our third appointment, the psychiatrist wore a beige jacket over a light green knee-length dress with flat shoes whose colour was somewhere in between. This seemed to be her chosen uniform, with only the colour of each piece of clothing changing. The cut and style remained consistent week-to-week as did her muted demeanour.

Dr. Tononi had again affected her mid-length brunette hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Thin, black-rimmed glasses were regularly pushed back against her face. I had never seen her speak to me over them, like some might to show distain for an ill-conceived idea or comment, but I suspected she could manage it quite well.

“Tell me about the new job.”

Straight to it. It had been Dr. Tononi’s suggestion to find a job where I could help children in some manner; a way of confronting the guilt while taking practical steps to build up positive outcomes over and above the tragedy I had caused. To try and balance some sort of cosmic scale; to tip fate back in my favour.

Fate is merely the pointless creation of a desperate and fearful mind. This revelation came to me during one of many sleepless nights. I might have heard it, or something like it, in the past, but it feels like it belongs to me now. I had killed a child and no amount of good deeds can be balanced against that. What heinous crime had little Liliana committed such that fate decided to place me in her path?

Our conversation ebbs and flows and I find my focus drifting. Questions likely from the manuals on Dr. Tononi’s bookcase are answered by what I think she wants to hear. Beside me, condensation drips from a glass of cold water to pool on a small side-table like life retreating from a mangled body.

“Are you taking your medication?”

She asks me this towards the end of each session.

“Yes, most days,” I answer. A variation on the same answer I have provided in previous weeks. It is truth, however. Pills to help me sleep, pills to soften the guilt, another pill that does something else I no longer remember or care to. I seem to have skipped straight from mid-thirties to elderly where popping pills is as much a part of life as eating and sleeping. I have been prematurely excluded from young, independent adulthood with no hope for a return.

“See you next week, Byron.”

*

Water ripples and clashes in the half-Olympic-sized pool, driven by student and instructor-created turbulence. Undulations sweep across the space to crash against the edges of the pool before being turned back inwards. A better metaphor for my life would be hard to find.

Across the pool, the other instructors are guiding their charges through their 25-minute lessons. Each class is in a precisely demarcated section with lane markers and submerged platforms for the kids. I have my space and everyone else has theirs.

Physical barriers separate us as surely as the tempestuous water does.

At the end of the day’s lessons, I leave the pool and offer brief good-byes to each student and parent. Dr. Tononi was right to direct me towards a job like this. I am gaining from the experiences; dealing with the grief and reconnecting the shredded parts of my spirit. The progress is glacial though; I doubt teaching and medication can drive enough progress before I stumble and fall one last time.

Other instructors move past me with quiet murmurs of “good-bye” and “excuse me” but warmth and care are missing. They gather in groups at the end of the pool or walk together towards the change rooms. Some are planning an evening out together and others are merely chatting and building friendships. None speak with me.

Drips of chlorinated water slide from my fingertips and clothes to land about me. The translucent spots momentarily flash into opaque blood-red and back again. A ghostly voice whispers “murderer”, but I am alone.

I look into the water and see a twisted caricature of a man peering back at me. The water is still for once.

*

Home is a small studio apartment in the rundown southern parts of the city. There are two locks on the door but only the lower one works. One is probably enough anyway; I don’t have much to steal.

Inside, I keep my meagre positions tidy and the space clean, but an uncleanable dull grey covers the ceiling and walls. The carpet is faded and worn in patches. Dirty light enters through small windows that can’t be scrubbed clear. I deserve and loathe this place.

The kitchen is like the rest of the apartment: clean with possessions placed where they should be. The atmosphere is depressed by faded grey walls and dull brown benchtops. I used to enjoy cooking on bright Sundays. This morning’s dishes and cutlery sit in a cracked drying rack waiting to be put away once they’ve dried.

A rickety sliding glass door leads onto a small balcony. Here is another space of contradictions. There is peace and safety, but also loneliness and separation from the world. Seven stories of height provides a conflicted view of nearby smoke stacks and high-rises with distant green-grey mountains peeking through gaps in the cityscape.

Recent rain has left streaks of dirt across the floor and lower parts of the walls. Dirty water is pooled in a depression in the balcony’s uneven concrete. I carefully pour some orange citronella oil into the puddle and see Liliana’s blood diluted by rainwater.

*

I haven’t driven since the death of the little girl. In fact, I haven’t been in any road vehicle since: buses, taxis or even a car driven by somewhere else. Not that anyone remains in my life to drive me anywhere.

My mind has kept trains disassociated from the tragedy so, other than walking, I ride the train from home to see Dr. Tononi or to work. There isn’t anywhere else to go. Sometimes I ride the train with no destination at all. I find a window seat and travel through and around the city. The world outside, separated from me by glass and steel, flashes past when the train is at speed, or meanders when the train approaches a curve or station.

This particular day, I strike out and intentionally walk an unfamiliar path through the busiest part of the city. I remain alone in the crowd and gently sway with the muscle memory of turbulent water.

A cry from mother to child cuts through the cacophony of urbanity and the invisible barrier around me. A cold tremor runs down my spine. It is a cry of desperation and hopelessness, as if the deepest fear that keeps parents awake at night was now inevitable in the waking.

I see the little girl run between parked cars with dense traffic a second away. Within moments I am with her, scoop her up and turn her away from the traffic. A car flashes past and clips me, sending me staggering towards the footpath with searing pain running a horizontal slash across my back.

We stop among the closest onlookers, breath ragged. She, at first, looks up at me with the innocence of a child but I see it drain from her as a harder edge replaces it and creeps into her deep brown eyes. She instinctively knows that her life was but a breath from ending, even if she doesn’t truly understand the mortal fear of permanent death.

And then her terrified mother is with us and sweeps the child into an embrace of relief, fear, love and distress; a maelstrom of emotions that I feel radiate outwards to penetrate my empty spirit.

A gentle squeeze of my shoulder and a desperately heartfelt “thank you” and they disappear into the crowd that has grown nearby.

The crowd begins to evaporate as the drama itself fades and I am left with the lingering touch; the beautiful words.

An onlooker has dropped a bottle of juice in the commotion. A puddle of thin, orange fluid is shaped like the sun, radiating flecks of golden light.

*

Another work day in the pool. The water is calmer today, however, as if the turbulence of months past actually came from within, rather than without.

I can’t believe in fate and inevitability as manifestations of the unseeable workings of a cold universe. Projection, however, perhaps that is real. Our state of mind and intent might radiate outwards and influence events to unfold in predictable ways.

The pain of being responsible for the loss of a child is still part of me; always shall be. Now, however, I see that I can help as well. I am not a lost monster, but a possible force for good.

I smile, and not the artificial mask I wear for the children whom I instruct, but because it feels right. The connection with the children is stronger today. I guide and they follow. We are all better at the end of the lesson than when we began it.

Lunchtime arrives, which signals the end of the morning’s lessons. As the last family exits the centre, I make my way, alone once more, to the cafeteria. A sandwich and coffee by myself under a tree in the university’s garden now seems like peaceful solitude rather than enforced exclusion.

These plans are forestalled by the approach of my peers. They ask if I want to join them today, instead.

I am stunned for a moment and stumble an embarrassing reply, before recovering with a “yes”.

*

The psychiatrist’s room remains unchanged as we begin another session. Looking past Dr. Tononi’s shoulder, I see a small plant in a pale brown pot, sitting on a chest of drawers; chestnut and modern. The arrangement is delicate with bright green leaves and three or four straight stalks tipped with white teardrop-shaped flowers reaching for the nearby window.

Oblivious to the doctor’s current line of discussion, I ask her when she got the new plant. Dr. Tononi turns and follows my line of sight, before returning to look at me with a slightly puzzled expression.

“The Peace Lily? It has always been there. Have you not noticed it before today?”

A Peace Lily? Of course it is.

We talk about work, lunch with colleagues, walking through the city and the child in the street. Throughout, I am looking at Dr. Tononi but speaking to the lily. The former offers guidance and the latter comfort. I have been closed to both since the death of the child but now I am open to them.

“Are you taking your medication?”

“Yes, every day,” I answer. I don’t think I need them, but I no longer fear them. For now, they are a helping hand worth holding on to.

Dr. Tononi smiles for the first time and the room brightens.

“I don’t need to see you next week, Byron. Shall we meet again in a month?”

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You do need to sign up for the site with, at least, a free account to access the story, so please use this referral URL to do so: https://penpee.com/?mref=ChristopherCowan

Let me know what you think of the story.

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The site does require a registration in order to access the short stories, but there is a free option as well as some very reasonable pay options for readers. Should you decide to sign up as a paying reader, then you are doing a great thing for short story writers (like me) and for independent publishing.

Penpee.com “is a creative and media publishing platform to network, read, write & earn from short stories”. The site offers the chance for writers to earn income from their short stories and for readers to gain access to a wide range of short stories.

Below are the first couple of paragraphs from my first short story on the site, The Holy Sandwich: An Origin Story. To continue reading, click on the link that follows and signup at penpee.com

The town of Empared was picturesque, surrounded to the north, east and south by the snow-capped curve of the Arc Mountains. Its western reaches were bordered by the Shining Sea, which stretched beyond the horizon to distant lands. The town was thriving; a bustling and steadily growing municipality that flourished on the back of one primary commodity.

Sandwiches.

The town maintained a precarious balance between fruitful endeavour and the largest sandwich-based Pyramid scheme known to sentient life. The dominant sandwich industry had been created in the image of the Holy Sandwich, an impossible relic that resided in the Temple of the Holy Sandwich, situated in the center of Empared. No one knows how the temple or the Holy Sandwich came to be, as such knowledge had been lost in the mists of time. However, all know of the four Custodians who watch over it: two during the day and two at night.

…click here to continue reading.

Thanks very much for supporting independent publishing.

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The pair seemed like strangers, thrown together out of circumstance, but as I wound my way to them, I could see the beginnings of conversation and some positive change in body language.

The  ebb-and-flow of patrons, almost entirely dressed in black t-shirts proclaiming adulation for such hard rock bands as Alter Bridge, Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax and countless others, moved around us in a steady sea of humanity. The son was dressed in a similar fashion but his shirt was new, having only been bought the day before. The father dressed like he was going out for a casual dinner: loafers, nice jeans and a buttoned, short-sleeved shirt. He favoured the music but was not part of the tribe.

Conversation continued to be stilted and forced between the pair. This was unsurprising, as estrangement and distrust had grown between them over the years. Clayton had once chosen to pursue a career in music, playing in garage bands in his teens and early twenties but it ultimately came to naught. Since then, he had become the avid concert-goer, forever desiring to be on stage himself but having to settle for being a spectator.

The disappointment had at some point turned to obsession, and despite the love of a wife and three children, live music would forever remain the centre of his hopes and misfortunes.

Leo loved music too, but he didn’t possess his father’s obsessive streak. He favoured balance but he also loved his father.

The pair hadn’t seen each other for more years than Leo cared to share with me. I asked him who of the pair had reached out to the other.

“I called dad. It took me weeks to make the call, but I was worried about him. After my parent’s  divorced, we almost never saw him but I knew he wasn’t well.” He stole another glance at his father. “Looks like I was right.”

“Oh, I feel fine, just a little run down, probably a cold,” replied Clayton.

There was a pause and I wondered if Clayton would fill the space with why he had been out of contact with his children for so long. When a response was unforthcoming, I prompted one.

“Look, you know how it is. Divorce is messy and you start to lose track of yourself. Once it’s obvious it’s over, getting out is all you can think about. I just focused on myself too much and lost my way.”

Leo seemed somewhat angry at this. “But you were distant and disinterested even before that, dad. For years. It was always music with you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but you don’t know how important it is to me; how devastating it was when I realised I was going to be just an average guy doing a pointless job for the rest of my life. I couldn’t shake it; I still can’t.”

“You took it out on us dad, through neglect. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a dream like that, but it hurt all of us. We didn’t deserve that.”

Clayton showed genuine regret. “Deep down, I knew that, but I couldn’t stop it either. I was just in such a hole, that I couldn’t get out of. I closed myself off. I’m sorry.”

It’s hard to tell which of the cascading emotions is dominating Leo at the moment. He moves slightly further away from his father.

*

House lights disappeared without preamble, to be replaced with small spot lights and the steady build of an imminent pyrotechnics display. A thrill of anticipation, more felt than seen, rippled through the audience. In the dim, artificial near-night of the packed auditorium, Clayton inched forward in his seat and found some hidden store of energy that had long been subdued beneath age and bourbon. Earlier, he told me that, across 35 years, this would be his 1,400th rock concert; an astounding figure. Based on the cost of tonight’s ticket, he has spent upwards of $150,000 in the pursuit of musical nirvana; in blocks two hours at-a-time.

The high-tempo thrash of hard-rock music shattered the momentary silence and I caught a glimpse of father and son enthralled in the spectacle. The previous uncertainly between them now gave way to shared experience, one disconnected from the challenges of the outside, especially that of their strained recent relationship. Music became the catalyst that allowed them to connect on some instinctual level.

One song lead into the next and father and son sang along to the familiar songs. The band had been active for longer than Leo had been alive, but had stretched their relevancy across decades and generations. Music had kept Clayton from his family but now it was helping him reconnect, at least to one son.

*

Clayton and Leo made their way through the side exit-doors, pressed tightly together amongst the dizzy and dazzled crowd and carried along in the black-clothed human tide. Street lights were harsh and the father had to squint and shield his eyes. His son seemed to fair better and, for a moment, there appeared a flicker of sympathy, and then it was gone.

Later, we sat at a small table in a nearby Subway. There are a number of other concert-goers in attendance, each with their preferred post-concert sub. A bubble of conversation thrummed around us, discussing the concert; the good, the bad and comparisons to the band’s best years now long gone.

Clayton removed his hearing aids and I asked him about them.

“I’ve had them for at least ten years. I never gave it any thought playing in the band.” He seemed to disappear into the past for a few moments. “Ears must have got damaged from the live music, but I don’t mind.”

He went on to explain that he has to turn them down while listening to live music. This means that he misses out on much of the detail, but there’s too much distortion at higher volumes.

“You should’ve been wearing earplugs all these years, dad, and in the band.”

There was a hint of sadness in Leo’s voice, but love too. Leo told me that he and his father captured quick moments of conversation between songs. It was the closest they have been, literally and figuratively, for many years. I asked what they spoke about and they each accidentally answered at the same time, eliciting some warm laughter between them.

“Dad told me that he was sorry for missing so much time with us kids, and tonight is one of his favourite nights because I was here with him.”

Clayton had been listening intently with head bowed slightly and holding his hands tightly together.

“I do regret the time I‘ve missed with Leo and his brother and sister. Even the best concerts over the years seem a bit hollow now. I missed so much.”

Leo placed a hand over his father’s. “It’s okay dad, we can make it up from now on.”

“Yeah, we can, and we will. These guys are playing again next weekend. Wanna go?”

Leo had a moment of hesitation that visibly unsettled Clayton. “How about going to an art exhibition instead, dad, or the markets? We can invite Susie and Peter to come along too? They miss you, dad.”

“Sure, son, that all sounds great. I don’t mind what we do.” Clayton’s smile is generous and full of relief.

Clayton’s horizons had just expanded to encapsulate new experiences and a reconnection with his children.

*

The taxi stopped ten metres from us and Clayton and Leo take a moment to absorb the cool of the night. We have been talking for what seems like hours, and, indeed, it is close to 2am, but they seem energised and refreshed.

The pair wished me a good night. As they made their way to the taxi, side-by-side, Clayton raised his arm and gently placed it around his son’s shoulders. In turn, Leo returned the gesture and they covered the rest of the distance as a father and son should. They climbed into the taxi and disappeared into the sparse early-morning traffic.

The post Once Was Grey appeared first on Christopher Cowan.

I have just entered the last two weeks of the degree (which I have been doing part-time over the last, almost, six years). Only a couple of assignments to finish off and I will have completed a Bachelor of Arts (Professional Writing and Publishing). I kind of feel a sense of relief already, so it will be a significant moment when I submit the last assignment.

The goal is to find a role within a publishing house or some other content creation organisation. Freelancing is also something I am exploring and I already have my editing/publication business, CC Publishing, and some gigs on Fiverr, to gain experience.

The post Uni Degree: Final Two Weeks appeared first on Christopher Cowan.

The process to select the 30 writers (one for each chapter), required a response to the following prompt:

The sky had turned grey as the four men walked nervously past the police car…

My response, which led to me being selected as part of the writing team, was:

The front passenger side door opened and a bloodied policeman slid into the gutter. Behind him, the two way radio was noticeably damaged.

‘Don’t…let him…win’

Alex, closest to the beaten police officer, paused and said, ‘We have no choice. You’ve seen that yourself.’

Moving quickly to catch up with the others, he missed the light fading from the eyes of the policeman; his body relaxing into a final state of death.

Crossing the road, the four entered a rundown apartment block, which the policeman had been observing.

This was wrong, they knew it, but the instructions of their tormentor followed, as if he himself walked behind them.

Steven knocked on the apartment door and the empty sound mocked them.

The door opened, seemingly reluctantly, to reveal a tall woman with shoulder length brown hair, framed by dull light behind her. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to follow the dry ones on her cheeks.

Sobbing, she quietly said ‘This isn’t right, you are becoming like him.’

Without waiting for a reply, she motioned to her left and a small boy moved to stand in front of her, looking up at the four men.

Turning to look at his mother one final time, he pleaded an old argument, ‘Do I have to go with them?’

‘Yes’, his mother replied before turning and directing the boy towards her four personal demons.

She quietly closed the door.

The manuscript was eventually published but only in limited numbers. Here is my copy:

You can read more about this promotion here and here.

The post Contributed Chapter: Airborne appeared first on Christopher Cowan.

Here’s the blurb:

Celebrating over 25 years of The X-Files, and nearly 50 years of Kolchak: The Night Stalker, OUTSIDE IN TRUSTS NO ONE is a collection of 156 reviews, one for every story of each show. Featuring contributions from Jill Sherwin, Sean Williams, Rich Handley, Paul Benjamin, Paul Simpson, Joseph Bongiorno, Robert Greenberger, Lloyd Rose, Susanne Lambdin, and over a hundred more!

ATB Publishing

You can order this book from ATB Publishing here.

Thanks for supporting independent publishing.

The post Proofreading: Outside In Trusts No One appeared first on Christopher Cowan.

Here’s the blurb:

Celebrating over 25 years of The X-Files, and nearly 50 years of Kolchak: The Night Stalker, OUTSIDE IN TRUSTS NO ONE is a collection of 156 reviews, one for every story of each show. Featuring contributions from Jill Sherwin, Sean Williams, Rich Handley, Paul Benjamin, Paul Simpson, Joseph Bongiorno, Robert Greenberger, Lloyd Rose, Susanne Lambdin, and over a hundred more!

ATB Publishing

You can order this book from ATB Publishing here.

Thanks for supporting independent publishing.

The post Essay: Outside In Trusts No One appeared first on Christopher Cowan.

• Your story must contain HUMOUR/COMEDY.
• Your story must include the following five words: DIZZY, EXOTIC, LUMPY, TINY, TWISTED.
• Your story must include a sandwich.

Below is my entry (although this is the slightly-longer-than-500-words version before I trimmed it a bit for submission). Enjoy and feel free to let me know what you think…

Oxolob threw back the hood of his pink-and-purple checkered robe and continued gazing at the Holy Sandwich. The relic was in pristine condition within an energy field that Oxolob’s primitive people had yet to understand.

“Oxolob, you have gazed in wonder at the Holy Sandwich for long enough. It is my turn now. Move aside so I may observe its satisfying combination of healthy salad options, premium cheese and exotic ham.”

“Alright, Steve, I’m bored of this anyway.”

“Blasphemy, Oxolob! How could you be bored with our sacred duty?”

Steve threw back the hood of his purple-and-pink striped robe and took up the position of Watcher that his partner had vacated.

Suddenly, a bright, all-consuming light engulfed the small room.

“Steve! You broke the Holy Sandwich!”

“No I didn’t, I didn’t touch it!”

Before them appeared a being of such glorious magnificence, that the two acolytes barely had time to gather their wits and arrange themselves into the formal ‘twisted breadstick’ of greeting.

“I am the Sandwich Maker. I am come to offer you a gift in reward for your people’s diligent guardianship of the Holy Sandwich.”

“Oh, Sandwich Maker,” said Steve, “we would be honored to receive any gift that you might bestow upon us in your benevolence.”

“Yeah, just one moment,” said Oxolob. “Before you get to the gift giving, could you maybe tell us why the sandwich has been here all this time and why we are worshipping it?”

“Shush Oxolob, you know not to look a gift-sandwich in the mouth,” said Steve.

“Shush yourself, Steve, I’ve been staring at this thing for years as part of my holy duty, but I don’t know why we do it.”

“What difference does it make, Oxolob? What else would you do with your miserable life? You’re too uncoordinated for sports, your breath stinks so you’re unlikely to attract a mate and your dress-sense will leave you an outcast from the rest of society forever. Really, pink-and-purple checkered robes are so last season.”

Steve pushed his partner acolyte aside and addressed the divine entity directly.

“I wish for knowledge. Please share with me the ability to create such a perfect sandwich at home for my wife, children and pet hamster.”

“I cannot, for you do not yet possess even the technology to create a biscuit with salt-reduced butter,” said the Divine Entity. “Choose again.”

“What about a hammer?”

“No.”

“Cure for the plague?”

“No.”

“A Labradoodle?”

“What’s a Labradoodle?”

“It’s a tiny dog. A cross Labrador and Poodle.”

“No.”

“Enough!“ Oxolob interjected. “So what exactly can you offer your people, who have diligently watched this, admittedly, miraculous sandwich sit here for countless centuries doing nothing?”

“This new pony.”

Another flash of light brought forth a pure white pony, heavenly of spirit and only slightly lumpy.

Steve fell to his knees in supplication. “Thank you, oh Great One. We shall feast upon this divine pony and celebrate your goodness.”

“Um, it’s not for eating,” said the Divine Creature. “Your kids can take turns riding on it.”

“Yep, sure, that’s probably a better idea.”

Before any further discussion could ensue, the being ascended on a beam of pure light, leaving behind the two dumbstruck acolytes and their new pony.

The sandwich remained within its protective energy field and refused to offer the dizzy acolytes any guidance. Ten thousand-year-old sandwiches can only do so much.

The post The Holy Sandwich appeared first on Christopher Cowan.