The last bell rings. You watch them pass by, wordlessly, sharing in something more than their cerebral spinal fluid. You envy their silent solidarity.
Sometimes the most challenging part of my day is fitting my thoughts into a shoebox by the closet before I fall asleep. You don’t start thinking until your shoes are on, Ms. Crawford, my sixth-grade gym teacher, would say. She would complain to us when Richie wore flip-flops to class. “Weren’t you in class last … Continue reading Shoebox
Waking in the morning is a chore sometimes. When it's very early in the morning I feel like sleeping not waking. When it's nighttime I can't wait to wake again. In the evening there are no chores. Actually sometimes there are chores like sleeping and waking but I don't do them. Not during the evening. … Continue reading Is it worth it?
Midnight? When I was younger, midnight was a hazard. A horror. So, midnight? What made midnight so frightening as a child? Was it the tales of Bloody Mary, ghosts, and spectral beings which confounded me? Probably. I remember hearing from a kid in 4th grade that if you look into a mirror, say "Bloody Mary" … Continue reading Midnight?
It's hot outside. Today's the kind of day you would remember from years ago, when you used to wake up at whatever time your body's internal clock thought was suitable, and in your state of remembrance, there's heat, filing your brain with red and orange-colored thoughts, and if for the fifteen to twenty minutes you're … Continue reading Heat
I love the blue skies. I lay down on the grass and enjoy the scene I'm seeing. It's one of the first spring days to feel like a real spring day. Not often is the wind blowing at such a dead calm that it's not a nuisance but is noticeable all the same. By all … Continue reading Blue sky
The marshlands were always a place of prosperity and grace. They lived harmoniously. When the rain came, the marsh people rejoiced and returned to their activities, yet for weeks the marshlands lacked the rain they came to depend on. To those who lived in the marshes, it seemed longer than weeks; the drought drained … Continue reading The Rains
Slingshot knew the path back to his farm in Winston County naturally. He followed it like the wolf followed the scent of its prey, like a hunter followed tracks in the woods. The Native Americans had carved his path centuries ago. He studied their culture for years after sundown, when he no longer could work … Continue reading Trail of Tears