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Defining moments and intriguing glimpses into the lives of a host of characters - some scary, Holly, Bourbon and the Blues. This book is written to acknowledge the Year of The Blues, The story is The story is set in the south during the late 's. A teenager from New England joins the carnival and meets a girl while traveling through Alabama.

Hypnagogic Tales. For Titania D. Grace, dreams are part nightmare, part mystery, and part pure inspiration.

In the hypnagogic state, the ephemeral boundary between sleep and the waking world, her dreams flourished. She brings them to life in Hypnagogic Tales, a trio Johnny Came Home. A contemporary saga of isolation and despair, Johnny Came Home depicts a tragedy for which A contemporary saga of isolation and despair, Johnny Came Home depicts a tragedy for which all young people of today are tempted. Isolation and despair. Three individuals are caught in a tapestry of deceit and drug dependency. Drug use helps Jon McKay.

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I heard again those savage screams I had heard in my delirious dreams. They were They were coming, all of them. Arrows filled the air whacking the wood walls of the cart. Lost in Vegas. David Atlas is a middle-aged partner in a Florida law firm who suddenly finds himself David Atlas is a middle-aged partner in a Florida law firm who suddenly finds himself with a free weekend after his wife Elaine books a short Caribbean cruise with a girlfriend.

After choosing to ignore several legitimate reasons to stay The book does not aim to survey the history of philosophy, however it does sample I order dinner and another drink, and then join some friends at the bar, chatting up a storm. As the light fades from the outside, the room transforms and starts to glitter. A cheer goes up around the dartboards, and is followed by a bubbling of laughter.

The servers spin around the room, visiting patrons and keeping them smiling. A new group of people enter the room and embrace their friends with affection, settling around one of the larger tables. One by one, the tables are occupied and the room fills with delectable smells from the kitchen, intriguing conversation, and plenty of merriment. The embers glow back at me with such a ferocity that they appear to be alive and breathing. Could it be that they too, are full of the energetic breath of The Black Sheep?

I was led here by a reoccurring dream. But not a dream of the usual sort, all mixed up and difficult to understand, but a waking dream with clarity, a vision.

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I envisioned sitting in a large room filled with family, friends and laughter, I saw the stars shining through the large windows and felt the warm fire at my back as I looked out across the room and its activity. A good place for writing stories, I thought. And an even better place for living them.

So, it became my quest to find this place, this place that my heart knew would be home.

Tales From the Jolly Gale

Then one day, as I sat on the hearth of The Black Sheep, writing in my journal, a strange, calm attentiveness swept over me that I had not felt before. I raised my head to gaze out over the room, searching. It was at that moment that I realized something had changed. There was stillness in me that had not existed before.

Peacefulness had replaced the restlessness. Suddenly my heart felt like it would burst with warmth, and my eyes welled up with tears as I realized I had arrived; there I was in my vision. It had become reality, and I knew I was home. Take me for example: there I was, huddled up in my small, cold and humble abode located twelve and a half miles south of The Black Sheep, in the middle of a dark and ominous forest. Without further ado I set about shoveling my way through the fifty-foot snowdrift that enveloped my faithful chariot, the MG.

With the awaiting bevy in mind, fending off the bears was a mere trifle. The torrential blizzard accompanied by gale force winds would surely be enough to terminate your average booze bent Brit; nay, not I. The thought of that crew-cut smile handing over a glass of the amber nectar was enough to carry me through the hurricane down the hill to Highway I found myself surrounded by a troop of very angry and vicious rabbits with flick knives and particularly sharp teeth.

Forfeiting my last carrot I cunningly bypassed the dilemma only to discover that I had landed myself slap bang in the middle of a minefield. It was unhuman the way I successfully navigated through a maze of high explosives. Suffice to say that it was worth losing both arms in order to be welcomed into the cozy public house by a grinning goatee. However, this loss did prove a little tricky in the driving department as I discovered when I ploughed into on coming traffic. They should know which is the proper side of the road to drive on, anyway. With only one limb remaining, namely, my right leg, I hopped along on my merry route, hope against hope that I might squeeze another hug out of the ever beaming bar maid.

After all, the bar brawls at those places are nothing compared to what the landlord at The Sheep can muster up after extended hours. Luckily it was a downhill gradient from the Mark Anthony, the approximate location where my right leg froze and consequently dropped off, and I was able, without too much trouble, to roll down Main Street with enough speed to bang on the door of T. At least then I could relax in front of the warm fire and lap at a bowl of Fullers. On hitting the door I lost most of my front teeth, broke my nose and fell into a state of subconsiousness.

Take a look at me! After all I had been through I thought there could be nothing left to deflate my punctured soul anymore. But I was mistaken. I felt alone. Let down and defeated. There were no cheery faces, no loving companions, alas not even a beer stain to lick on. Everything went black. Now, I should point out that this is not a letter seeking sympathy. To think that a commiserating phone call or apologetic letter regarding this tear wrenching news was too much effort for those employed a my favourite lounge. I consider myself to be a fair man.

Tales - The Black Sheep

And to say that such an epic voyage is not worthy of a free pint is a massive understatement. To be perfectly honest, the only way to redemption that I can foresee would be some sort of job offer. Part time, please. Then we could all return to being one big happy family again. By the way, Happy New Year. I was destined to be a member of the Black Sheep clan. It was late winter in Ashland and I sensed a new arrival in town. I was working below the now infamous Black Sheep headquarters and I had spotted the culprits shortly after they purchased the fine, loft space. Working away in my box one day I noticed the black van, tinted windows, speeding into the plaza and screeching to a stop across the street.

She rarely wore a smile in the trek across the street. You could tell within those steps that this girl meant business. She had a great style that caught my eye, made me want to know her.

No one in Ashland dressed that way. Well not yet anyway. She must be from the big city, somewhere like New York or Chicago with that hard-core edge on fashion. I always tried to say hello, acknowledge her presence to somehow get a true glimpse of this mysterious damsel from behind her dark sunglasses.

I also wanted to get the gossip on the newcomers to the valley. I became more intrigued with the project upstairs when I noticed her partner in crime. He moved quicker and more mysteriously than she. Banging, booming and tons of supplies constantly flowed up the stairs.