Photo - Taylor Heery - unsplash


(Another poem from one of my first writing classes) Neurons firing are the crayons of life. I used to use a palette of blue and grey, then, I taught myself to use the variety pack.

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Abused Hands

(Not one of my better stories. But still taking classes and trying to learn.) ABUSED HANDS Dear Abby, Now that I am retired, this is my life. I wake up, open the box of oatmeal, make breakfast and hold the spoon as it goes to the mouth. Then, when I should be relaxing, picking up

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This is from one of the first classes I took while trying to learn to write. The writing is modeled from Lucille Clifton’s poem – Miss Rosie. Mom When I watch you Life no better than a machine Laboring, moving piles Of filthy clothes Or When I watch you Trapped, in a room With endless

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tractor in a field

“I done it”

When I decided I wanted to try and write in my retirement, this is one of the first stories I completed for a class on personal essays. “I done it’ “I done it.” Three words. To the educated, these words sound ignorant and are the cause of ridicule for the people who say them. But

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