From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

I strolled along with Shakespeare, beneath a full, midsummer's moon. Caught fireflies with Steinbeck, though our parting was too soon. I hitched a ride on Twain's raft, drifting lazily downstream. Sipped sweet tea with Faulkner, and lost my mind to dreams. I took a quest with Tolkien, he has such traveling friends. Solved puzzles with Conan Doyle, even the master can pretend. I fell asleep with Hawthorne, clutching tight to every breath. Dreamt dark and twisted nights with Poe, weeping soft for childhood's death.

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary..." Today marks 202 years since the birth of Edgar Allan Poe. Had he survived more than his 40 short years, one can not imagine the depths his darkness might have reached. He was the godfather of macabre fiction, the grandfather of the short story and the credited progenitor of the detective-fiction genre. Death followed him like an ever-present shadow, taking more than its fair share of loved ones from his side more quickly than it should. And leaving nothing for him but the bitter, empty, hollow of despair. But, instead of hiding from or denying the tragedies he endured, Poe chose to wrap his emotions in the twists of plot--- giving voice to his personal demons and a refuge for others as they wrestled with their own. There have been very few creative avenues that haven't been touched by the genius of Edgar Allan Poe--- from poetry to fiction, from art to movies--- his stories have lent themselves rea...