I answered the phone and could tell something horrible had happened. My mom had a steady voice, calm, and monotone like. She said, “Mary. Your father passed away sometime last night. I found him in his chair this mornin. The lord has taken him home.” Words failed me, as a shrill wave of panic gushed…
His hands were rough and he smelled like dirt and rotten peaches at the end of every day. Gary Henderson was a laborer, and an old one at that. His wife Nelly and he lived in a small house owned by the orchard and farm they tended. Nelly minded the main house and the Whitmore…
I struggle to make this decision. My hands automatically want to write in first person, as if I am telling the story from my own life experience. However, I feel as if this can be really limiting from a storytelling perspective. Often I find that I start a story in first person, only to go…
I have never been so confused, yet so sure of a conversation in all of my life. I replayed our dialogue over and over again, only to come back to the same sinking feeling that he was giving me an out. That coward! If he wasn’t feeling secure enough to go through with this, then…
There was a time in my life where I would search for that perfect altered state. A concoction of a few things, taken in order, timed perfectly, could result in a happy state of mind with a sidecar of levitation. One wrong step however, and I would end up too far from my goal, which…