Category: Writing

The conversations were getting a little stale between us. You know the ones between two people. If it had been food in the refrigerator, I would’ve identified it as bread shoved way in the back on the bottom shelf, behind everything else, because someone in the house has a problem with bread buying. The hunt

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This should be a better place for all of us. This would be a more respectable place if we didn’t kill each other, but we don’t live in this type of city. We have never been a part of any respectable place. We should be. Boy, we should be. When the day slipped out of

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I’ve written something similar to the below before in a blog because I keep re-working my idea for a novel where the narrator writes it sort of like journal entries. It starts at the beginning of the year, Gregorian style, and ends with the end of the year, December 31st. It involves murders that need

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I’m anxious in my thoughts. I don’t know where to turn. I only know north is up. It should be up, but my compass tells me something different. I don’t know what to do with this. The fear sets in, the sheer panic, I am lost again. This time I don’t have a car to

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Step after step, I will walk a long distance to get to where I need to go. The only problem is no one knows where I have been before this, and they need to know in order to propel myself forward. I never knew if I was going in the right direction. Some assistance would

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