The photograph is small, maybe three inches square, with a scalloped white border. It’s black and white but I see my mother’s green armchair, the one that matched the chesterfield...
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Brace yourself; this may come as a shock:
Being a mother is not the most important job a woman can do.
In fact, the idea is a crock of shit....
“Excuse me?” The whispered question was faint amid the bustle of a Friday evening sidewalk. Wrapped up in my own impatience to get home, I didn’t realize he was speaking to me.
To pseudonym or not to pseudonym?
When I recently decided to dive into publishing my writing online, I confronted a question I’m sure many writers have grappled with.
Do I publish under my real name or a pseudonym?
One beautiful, spring Sunday afternoon not too long ago, I rode a bicycle for the first time in over twenty years. And I had the time of my life.