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Day Fifteen

See if you can figure out who this letter is addressed to before looking at the tags.



Four Minutes

The plucky freshman toed the line in his lane next to the older boys. Bobby, tall and slender, looked undersized in his relatively bulky singlet that hung from his frame like a sheet billowing on a clothesline. 811 more words


Meetinghouse Night

The dirt drive leads as it always has to The Meetinghouse. Many years ago the townsfolk took the building and swiveled it using man power and teams of oxen. 303 more words


Friday Fictioneers: Vodka Fog

I’m late; I’m late! It’s been a very busy week with a few big writing projects (on Huff Post, a piece about Honey Boo Boo… 447 more words

Tales From The Motherland

from me

It’s kinda cool sitting in bed and reading submissions from the reading group. I joined because I needed more commitment from me to be responsible about finishing a novel. 281 more words


The Agony and the Ecstacy of Writing

I am a writer. At least that’s what I call myself. I write. That’s what writers do — we write. Right?

I have been telling people I am a writer for a couple of years now, which is not very long I know. 420 more words

Written By Marybeth

We Are Everywhere

Sitting alone in a cozy coffee shop, eyes wide and glaring at a computer screen or sheet of paper, hoping the words will manifest themselves (one can only dream). 240 more words