![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/c_fill,f_jpg,fl_progressive,h_302,q_auto,w_1512/603fb47f1d0ec2001c8ee996.png)
Maria Lara Dailey
Bio
Writing for the love of a well-told story.
Stories (2/0)
Colored
I was maybe 19 when it happened. Oh, and the young, African-American woman was so angry she briskly walked away, saying nothing. I really didn't know what I had done, but a kind friend enlightened me: "colored" was an ethnic slur. Colored had such a different meaning to me before this point. Don't give up on me; keep reading.
By Maria Lara Dailey3 years ago in Confessions
Against the Glare
Beckham tapped the box of cigarettes rhythmically against his hand as his footsteps trimmed the edge of the road. This pack was his last; he made this carton last the three months since he'd gotten out. It was the first crime he committed after being released —steal a carton of cigs. He promised himself that he wouldn’t break any more laws. He hadn't planned on going back; he was getting too old. A mid-westerner needs to stretch his legs. And he was no boy anymore; he was etching out 62 years like old, wooden school-desk graffiti. When he had gotten out, he packed an old army backpack and took to the road. Hiking. Camping. Sometimes eating.
By Maria Lara Dailey3 years ago in Humans