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Thousands of writers are running the marathon – a month long writing event in which we are challenged to complete a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. Here are a few ideas to keep you going… Continue reading
A bitch on a board. Rise, drop, hot wheels singin’, the wind in her hair. Ready for Scarecrow man – break on your board, slide under the skinny arm. Calls her Sugar, wants her sugar, just like Uncle Boris. Not about to get it. Pump, pump, glide down Center Street. Trash day on Maple. Keds nailed to the board, still light as air. Kickflip over the tipped barrel. Knew she could. Pump, pump, glide.
Home now, late again. Pop the board. Tail a little scuffed, just like hers. Too much ridin’, maybe. Continue reading
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Someone sent her this in an email.
It seems that two women started talking while waiting for their plane. One of them consulted her very ornate diamond wristwatch and said, “When I had my first child, my husband bought me this.”
“Why, bless your heart, isn’t that sweet,” said the second. “
And when I had my second, he bought me a Lexus.”
“Why, bless your heart, isn’t that sweet.”
“Did your husband buy you anything when you had your children?”
“Yes, he did. He sent me to charm school.”
“Charm school. Whatever for?” Continue reading
Donna Tartt’s bestselling 771 page novel, which won the 2014 Pulitzer prize for fiction, has both supporters and detractors. The nay sayers seem to object to the abrupt change of milieu from a vibrant and colorful Manhattan full of interesting people and possibilities to a dusty uninspiring Las Vegas where the life of the main character takes a steep downward turn. The bomb that detonated in the New York museum while Theo was visiting with his mother, changed the boy’s life forever Continue reading
We didn’t hug or kiss in my family. Nobody ever said, “I love you.” On the last day of her life, my mother whispered, “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.” Guess that’s as close as she could come to expressing affection.
Still I have to suppose my parents did love me in their own stifled way. For sure they gave great presents Continue reading
When a cold fog rolled between them, the little boy clutched his mother’s hand.
“Don’t fret, Timmy, don’t you fret.” The tall woman puffed out the words as she struggled to pull her metal wagon up the hill. “We’ll get this laundry unloaded and we’ll get paid. Then we’ll go home and have animal crackers and cocoa and get warm.”
The boy whimpered. In a soft voice, he said, “But we can’t go there. Continue reading
“Dr. Doyle invariably conceives the end of his story first, and writes up to it. He gets the ‘climax, and his art lies in the ingenious way in which he conceals it from his readers. A story — similar to those which have appeared in these pages — occupies about a week in writing, and the ideas have come at all manner of times—when out walking, cricketing, tricycling, or playing tennis. He works between the hours of breakfast and lunch, and again in the evening from five to eight, writing some three thousand words a day.” –Harry How, Strand Magazine