The Road Not Taken Romane & Geschichten

"What is this?" She picked up the note and started to read it slowly. "When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Wotan Rides the Wind Sanctuary of autumn, a cairn of stones. Death is not proud, Death goes as a beggar dirty for alms outside the county parish, you pass by the sorrel-haired youth, and his laconic eye bespeaks a hunger, a timeless cave of wonders. Death is not mighty, Death is a humble widower who sits weeping by a lighthouse window, polishing brass for the seagulls, ash more bread than fireplace, eating the leftover cheese that has hardened and become dogfood.

What they had planned for was 5 roads but it was 6. “Alright l think we should just all move in, just as we had planned. We will see where this road leads” Lowell ordered. Just as they were about to mount the horse, Rudina noticed something. “Stop!” she said. Then she walked to the road. She bent and examined the road. There were foot prints on all but one. And on the one that had no foot print, the sand looked like it had been disturbed or rather not so smooth. She knew in that moment, that was the road they would follow.

I can’t describe the elation and aching chest pain it gives me. The truck is long gone, and I stare off in the direction it went, along a long road that curves off out of sight, and I gaze both ways, trying to figure out which would be the shortest route to a town. One might be close; one might not. Or maybe I’m being too hopeful, and it stretches for miles either way with nothing at all. If I have any chance of being rescued, I have to stick to the tarmac and not stray. Roads mean people, and people mean being saved. I am not going to give up. I get to my feet and follow the truck's route, hoping it’s the right choice.

Dorothy stands before the electronic keypad, she places her hand over it and begins to chant: “Follow where the blind are leading, listen where the mutes are keening, take the road that splits asunder, nor left nor right, but travel under, where oneself meets the other, one from two and strange combining, with the other intertwining. Ceiling to floor, I command thee to open the door.”

There are a thousand roads leading away There are thousands of roads that sang the night. My path is one And in it the moon again smiles without sleep, Now she is my lady I am her slave, servant in the night ... The time was drawing near to dawn, but low black clouds hanging almost overhead made the twilight a real darkness. Heavy, joyless and impenetrable.

"The road gets worse from here." I nodded, not trusting my voice. Beyond the window, darkness was giving way to the faint gray of predawn. City had turned to suburbs, suburbs to countryside, and now we were entering dense forest. The road narrowed, deteriorated, branches scraping against the car's sides like skeletal fingers. I'd traveled this route once before, decades ago. Left in anger, vowing never to return. But debts remained unpaid, truths untold. I was running out of time to settle both.

I pointed to the sign hanging on the hotdog stand and the nearby convenience store. It said, "Cash only." "Miss, wait for me. I'll be right back." I watched Charles walk away and sighed, reflecting on the joys of youth. Despite being just a year older than him, I had ended up in my current miserable situation. "Miss, isn't he handsome? He doesn't have a girlfriend. Would you like to consider him??" one of Charles' classmates said, mistakenly thinking that my prolonged gaze at Charles’ back was due to a strong interest in him.

Elizabeth The night grew thicker around me as I made my way back home. There was no living chorus to soften the night, only the wind moving through the trees, and the brittle sound of my boots biting into the shallow snow. I had done this so many times, the streets knew me, the roads marked me, the dark anticipated us. And every step I took served to remind me of the reason we had to be in the dark. Every trip on this lonely road, every time I climbed down my bedroom window, it pricked me like sharp ice at my side. It was the wrong way to the right thing. And there was no other option.

"Come on. That old hag smells like mothballs. She doesn't hold a candle to you!" Tears blurred my vision and dripped onto my hand. I wiped them away, steadied myself, and took out my phone to take photos of the messages.