Writing is meant to be shared, so if you have a moment come visit, open a page and begin. Let me know what you like, what makes you laugh, what made you cry - just a little. And when you're done, tell a friend. Thanks and have a great day.
Chapter Ten - The Funeral
I didn’t cry at my father’s funeral. And that fact haunted me for years. I sat quietly to one side as scores of relatives, friends, and colleagues streamed into the funeral parlor. Waited their turns. Shed their tears. Said their goodbyes and gracefully exited, never to be seen again.
Nothing Like a Hurricane
California just received a little reminder from Mother Nature that sometimes we need to take her seriously. This is the first hurricane/tropical storm in 80 years to actually make its way into the state with very high winds and lots of rain and flooding.
To Kill a Mockingbird
What a name. Like Thor or Zeus. Superhero made of flesh and blood in a world we knew too well. A world divided between them and us. They to forever want, us to forever lead. Why? He chose principles and fairness over the way it was. Remember the name, Atticus.
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
In every generation, someone paves the way for others to follow. The Beatles and Sgt. Pepper’s broke new ground. Making it okay to experiment. Day in the Life, violins, and organs soaring. Getting Better, we all felt it happening. Lucy in the Sky, released the genie allowing us to fly.
Three Pigs, A Wolf, and A Great Wind
You gotta admit, Three Pigs ain’t exactly the prettiest characters for a story. Not like Snow White, Cinderella, or that lady that kept falling asleep - Sleeping Beauty. But hey, not every story is perfect. Not everyone has a happy ending either.
A Barbie Movie Critique
I don’t understand it. Perhaps I should. The idea of making Barbie a feminist icon, a warrior for half the world, eludes me. Of all the heroines who gave their lives to place women on equal footing, gave them the vote, a voice in their future - why a doll?
Critique of Van Gogh Self Portrait
You worried, that no one saw you. That your brush painted a world that no one shared. You hurt, as others sold their paintings and ate. As others mingled and laughed while you remained quiet and alone in a world that scurried away. Not understanding who you wanted to be.