Pausing, she stands at the fork. A rippling chill sends goosebumps to life, and with a hopeful gaze she stares up at the signpost; she is met with blank slats.

Sighing heavily she leans against the hard wood, and as she feels it press against her spine she closes her eyes, knowing she can’t rest there long.

The path upon which she currently travels looms ahead.  She knows the potholes, the probable twists and turns, and the inevitable enervation it carries.

Staring at the cobblestone road to her left she feels a quickening of her pulse. Does the Land Of Oz await?  Will she find potholes or sinkholes?  Will she find her rainbow, or just rain? Even a sprinkling of relief for her soul’s fatigue would be welcome, but perhaps greater weariness awaits.

She stands at the fork.

Should she follow the path of the tried and not so true, or find the courage step on to the uneven cobblestones, and into the unknown?

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