I had to smoke, but I quit. The jury was dilberating and my hands couldnt stop shaking as I sit on the hard woodbench in the hallway. The floors are a broiwn marble and polished, a reflection
View writingViolet's arms had morphed from skin, fat and bone to iron weights. Their heaviness seeped into her shoulders, across her chest, then down, down, down until the lifting of her legs felt impossible. She drug herself to the sofa, pulled…
View writingThe skin folded over, the potato skin. It was glistening in amber oil still hot, and we’d have plenty of time for it to cool before people arrived. The folded part would be extra crispy, like the potato chips I…
View writingOne of the jurors who was rejected said, of the defendant, as if she were surprised, "He's just a man!"And of course he is, but isn't that his mystique, that's he something greater, that he's yuuuuuge? Well, actually he is…
View writingYou are like me. We may not seem to be alike at all on the surface, but we are. We may not like the same things. You may enjoy listening to country music while I prefer straight ahead jazz. You…
View writingby design. Genetic design mostly but also subject to the vagaries of chance so it's not to say that we are terribly alike, but who is to say? There is no possible way to compare us side by side; all…
View writingWe are alike in so many ways it seems futile to try to prove otherwise, but letting my troubled mind wander, I shall write and write and write some more. Lucky you. In that, we are similar in the sheer…
View writingDo you believe in following your "passion"? Or do you think it's better, in the long run, to stick to what you know and keep the security of what you've built? This answer is subjective, and I know the answer…
View writingMy child, I know you think you are different, unique, and special. You are all those things. I know that you think I have no useful information to impart. Perhaps I do not. Yet, I suspect that all children on…
View writingI’ve been reading Annie Ernaux lately. Odd that one can say “I’m reading a person” when what one means is I am reading books by Annie Ernaux. I think that’s called synecdoche. No matter. What matters is how much Annie…
View writingViolet had seen the furry white ball darting from bush to bush for the last month. She could have hidden in her grande Starbucks cup. Her smallness lifted a fear from an internal cavern Violet refused to see in herself.…
View writingYou are like me and different, too. For instance. They say we look the same, that it's obvious we're mother and daughter. I see a resemblance, at certain angles and when you smile. I tell myself, rather hope, that we're…
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