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Francais

To read winning short stories from previous contest please click: here

In October, INHOUSEPRESS released a new novel: ONE JUST MAN by Stan I.S. Law (Second edition, prequel to ELOHIM-Masters and Minions), .

About the book:

After many years of demanding studies of medicine, a Gift of Healing chooses to manifest itself through Dr. Peter Thornton's unwilling hands. The new ability plays havoc with his professional life. The Gift becomes an insidious curse as it threatens to obliterate his promising career. He struggles against his destiny, until a Will greater than his own takes over.

To download first chapter please click here

And God created man unto his image and likeness.
We continue to do so. If our own creations veer from our likeness, we call them retarded, stupid, maladjusted, or just ungrateful brats who do not appreciate all that we have done for them. Just look around. The streets are full of homeless kids with pierced ears, noses, eyebrows and probably brains. They are the vagabonds, looking for love in a beer-bottle, a needle, a reefer, or any other quick fix. We, the parents, have created their environment. We, the parents, repudiate any responsibility for their actions. Just as they do­­the squeegee kids.

They are different. They do not conform. They are not in our image and likeness.

If Einstein had spawned you or me, the illustrious entourage of egg-heads would probably regard our actions and mental ability as dismal. Retarded. I have a friend who's child is much less retarded in relations to him than we are in relation to Einstein, yet the doleful father suffers because he regards his progeny as not "normal". Little does he know that "normal" means average, uninteresting, dull, one of the masses. By wanting your child to be normal you sentence him/her to mediocrity.

Xenophobia ­ the fear of the different, of that which is strange to us.
Ultimately, the fear of the unknown.

To read more please click here 

I saw her just once. A tremulous shadow of my yesterdays
still lingers. Persistently. Or is it but a dream
of unfulfilled desire? Fragments of memories, petals,
floating forlorn, down life's winding stream.

Her step was as light as a morning's dew,
her smile as bright as the rising sun,
her touch was as gentle as the summer's breeze.
I really have no idea how it all began.

Alas 'tis folly, for I never touched her­­
other than with my thoughts. I would not defile
a dream. A fleeting illusion­­ghostly apparition?
Yet memories of her continue to beguile