Between death and hell a bridge shining silver wings offers his soul hope.

The number seven is magical, they say. Seven years ’til our cells completely regenerate. Seven years ’til Jacob possesses Rachel, no, Leah, and seven more for Rachel. Seven days in a week. Post traumatic stress...

I’ve learned to lickmy own foul woundsand prize the taste of ache.

The unrelenting grip of Soldier’s Syndrome slips finger by slow finger. The marrow’s been affected—emotional leukemia at the deepest level. Transplants of love and friendship aid healing, yet time is still key, and the clock...

God, O God, where art thou? Thou art as distant to me as the lady combing rice in the Yunnan Province of China or a piece of floating space debris circling Pegasi. In this feeling-dead...

I am Frustration. I am Memory-Lost. Sometimes I read a line a dozen times before it sticks. My creative force has slipped. I type slower, speak slower, think at a snail’s pace. I’m Life shapeshifted...

Love our veterans!” And when he neglects church, take him cookies anyway. Sing him a song. Pet his cat.

The conflict between the will to deny horrible events and the will to proclaim them aloud is the central dialectic of psychological trauma.