The Ancestors_Why don't you want to meet new people, Ma?..._Why Do You Write?_Dressed for the De
Catalog Guide:
The Ancestors
It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. They came in the night. And it was for that reason Sarah lit every lantern and candle in the small cottage. She sat directly in front of the wood-burning fireplace. A blanket and the warmth from the fire cut the chill. And then there it was…the stirring of wind, the hum. To those who didn’t know, it was just a winter wind rustling through the forest. But she knew different. “He is my refuge and my fortress, My God in whom I trust…,” Sarah whispered the prayer to herself.The hum grew louder, turning now to moans. “He will cover ...
Why don't you want to meet new people, Ma?...
"...Because I don't like people. I told you that a million times before." That was the answer I kept giving my daughter every time she asked me why I didn't want to attend her job's free museum night.My daughter, Sarah, who is the complete opposite of me is a lively twenty-year-old college student who is living her best life as an artist and curator-in-training at the Detroit Museum of Art. I didn't finish college, due to dropping out to have her my freshman year. I suck at drawing, despite having taken a few art courses myself. And I'm not living my best life, doing what I like. I'm a warehou...
Why Do You Write?
Why do you write? The question bounces around in your brain, ricocheting off memories, imaginings, ideas, aches, desires, anxieties, and dreams, evading answers. It’s a question asked by colleges considering whether to accept you into their creative writing program. A question asked by professors trying to get your creative juices flowing. By parents worrying about how you’re paying your bills. By yourself wondering what the hell you’re doing with your life. Why do you write? Usually, you answer questions by observing them like a lion stalking an antelope. Then you pounce and the question’s a...
Dressed for the Devil
The wagon rumbled across the plain, the horses kicking up dirt. The wind tickled my bare feet, my boots sopping from the last river we crossed. I looked past the horizon, trying to think of my old home, a cozy cabin surrounded with long, swaying grasses and a small stream to the side. Horses passed by the house daily, every new rancher wanting to get a taste of my mother’s famous homemade dried bean chili. I sighed, hardly being able to picture my mother without sore thoughts. She was the reason we were on the road right now, even though it wasn’t her fault. About a year ago, or maybe it was...