I question my talent as a writer. I am afraid to call myself a writer because I am constantly reading the works of others and by comparison I decide that there isn’t any way I could write like that. Yet, it is all I ever want to do. I began writing at roughly age 5. I wrote little rhymes about the things I saw around me. I had many bits of paper and blunted pencils. I made it big when…
The room was small. In it were a bed, chair, night table, bedside rug, and a Bookshelf. Drab grey curtains hung at the lone window. Derrick sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the paper in his hand. The type written note said POSITIVE. The radio next door was playing loudly as usual. He rubbed his forehead and stood up as the scalding tears ran down his gaunt face. A moan escaped his mouth. He went on the…
THE SILVER BROTHERS AND GRENDEL BY: LANA M. HO-SHING. 8x 9 1/4. 14 pages. Ages 3-10 years. FOR SYANI L. HO-SHING. Once upon a time in a land called Farfinnewgen, Mistress Nina, a big shiny black dog, lived in the Palace with her mistress Queen Frangipani. Nina was the Queen’s pet and she loved her to bits, she even loved the tuft of hair that stood up straight right smack in the middle of Nina’s forehead, between her two pointy…
The horse drawn bread cart came down the road I lived on when I was a child, very early, every day. By six o’clock each morning you would hear the clip clop of the mule’s shoe, on the asphalt. The animal always looked sad, as if it did not like its job. It looked the same way the horses that pulled the hearses looked. I could be wrong but I did not think these animals enjoyed what they were doing….
When you are telling a story, you should not omit any of the facts or you will turn the whole thing into a lie. Sometimes the facts maybe hard to accept and appear suspiciously close to being a lie, nevertheless, just tell it, as that is all the truth there is. This story is about a fisherman. He had seven children and a fat, pleasant wife. Very early every morning, he would leave home and go down to the sea,…
He came toward me, a gun in his hand. Tatoos littered his fleshy arms that bulged with anger. Anger towards me. The concrete wall chafed my back. I was trapped. His lips drooled blood mixed with saliva. I had kicked him in the mouth when he grabbed at my blouse. Knee kick, step back, high kick connect. I could still feel the painful stretch in my right hip from that round house I landed. It has been years since I…
Tap tap tap, scratch, scratch, tap. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the soft morning light seeping into my bedroom. I was alive, was my first thought. Now that I am preoccupied with death, I was pleased to note that I was still with other mortals. Not always do they please or excite me, nevertheless they are what I identify with. The tapping and scratching began again and I struggled to find what the source was. My anti-morning-glare eyes finally detected something furry on…