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Memories of Mother... Post 52: Unfinished Business

You may not know this but my mother was quite adept at embroidery.

This fact, still surprises me every time I think about it.

Tablecloths were her speciality, especially Christmas ones. 374 more words

wandering rocks.

I wake up and my pants and shirt and sheets are sweat soaked again, and I confusedly jerk my torso upright, narrowly avoiding the painful contact of my head on the top bunk by hunching myself over and flinging my right arm up to shield my face, half-expecting impact.  1,003 more words

Life

My father hates me...

In my dream, my mother slaps me.

My father hates me.

I feel his volatility bubbling under the surface, ready to explode,
joining the mythology of the ages–Fathers taking the lives of children; 379 more words

Life Purpose Path

Time and Space

One of the reasons behind my writer’s procrastination is often, “I don’t have time.” My life tends to get consumed with work, kids, exercise, chores, vacations, etc. 571 more words

Unfinished Business

Colin Owens was going back.

His cloak of invisibility was still giving him good service despite the years he’d been living in West Africa, spending his days lounging in the sun and plotting. 523 more words

1st Pages

telemachus.

I unlock the door to the yoga studio with some difficulty: this fucking lock.  It always does this to me, as I wriggle my key inside and its alacrity to function rivals that of a bucket with a hole in it.  502 more words

Life

eumaeus

After my dream, I decide to call Berry.  I haven’t been in touch with her for the better part of this year, but rather than her cheery hello, I’m greeted by her impersonal voicemail — You’ve reached Berry Jean Stokes, I’m not available to take your call, please leave a message — the strange formality of her new last name even.  1,527 more words

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