Young Marla is haunted by nightmares of being in the womb, terrified by the prospect of having her whole life—everything she’ll ever have and everything she ever will be—taken from her.
I feared one of my nurses, not because she was Black, but because of what she was going to do with that bag of water connected by a hose to a nozzle that looked, to me, as big as a Louisville Slugger.
I worry. That’s what I do. Usually about what I can’t control. Which is silly. But I learned it from my mother.
You think Capitalism is evil. Well, you just got a peek, these last several months under the lock down, of what socialism looks like.
“Oh, Marrrla, you’re a virgin. Just like Mother Mary. I so hoped you would be.” Grinning, he added, “I’m so blessed to be your first.” Then, glancing at the crucifix above my headboard, he added, “Thank you, Jesus, for allowing me this teaching moment.”
Grief is normal, it’s even healthy—to an extent. There is no treatment for it, no vaccine to prevent it.
If life is a series of choices, a variety of paths we take, why does it seem that the universe so often plays favorites, beckoning to the privileged few, “Take this path to fame, fortune, or power, to love and happiness”?
Nothing about socialism is good. It’s based on the premise that government can make better decisions for the people than the people can for themselves.
I pulled up my Outlook calendar on January 2 and was struck by the year: 2020.
So, I ask, how can a writer write believably without, like a method actor, relying on their own personal experiences?
Today I write for many reasons: I believe words have power.
Memories haunt us at the most inopportune moments.
There came a time when I started to look back over my life, perhaps because there are more days behind me than ahead of me.
I’ve shared rooms with a lot of people over the years, men and woman. The commonality? Once they walk out the door they never return, not to knock, not to crack the door to even sneak a peek.
Dad taught me to honor my country, our flag, our anthem, those who defend us and protect us.
I miss the children I never had, seeing others grow through parenting, being called “Dad”, leaving behind a legacy, a part of themselves to live on after they’re gone.
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Nowhere in that phrase does Lazarus write “only”.
America is supposed to stand for unity, inclusiveness. Race, religion, culture are not anthropocentric: no single group is the central fact of the universe.
Is the novel destined to become only a curiosity, something to be studied in school as an archaic art form?
Just because liberals cite the dictionary definition of fascism doesn’t mean the Left can’t employ the same tactics. They do, they are, and it’s all sleight of hand to blame the Right …