Scraps of Paper

I can't write about it because I wasn't there. But I've grown up in its aftermath. Every autumn, that one day. Homework wasn't due; assignments weren't added; class wasn't roudy or noisy. And, for one of the few times of the year, the old box-set TV screens were turned on, buzzing to life as disoriented... Continue Reading →

If Only

I was so meek, so insecure. So tentative, I couldn't see everything it kept me from. Everything it kept me from. How am I supposed to be a great author, like TolkienĀ and C.S. Lewis, when I did not spend my childhood authoring? When my waking moments were not dedicated to creating, composing, writing like they... Continue Reading →

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