Tiny crowds within, Our bodies that we won’t know, Without microscopes.
The secret of love, Is giving and receiving, Without possessing.
If I write nothing, My characters will be hurt, And so I must write.
Stories always change, From idea to finished work, Don’t get too attached.
Writing fiction is, Having empathy with those, Who do not exist.
This is a work of fiction. The Basket Good Friday Laine found the body. We always visited Grandma at Easter. At Christmas she came to our parents’ house, and at other times of the year we visited her, but Easter was special. We normally went on Thursday and stayed three nights. I’m sure it started… Continue reading The Basket – Good Friday
April is both National Poetry Month and Indie Author Month. Each day throughout the month, I’ll post a haiku, a story part, or both. Full of creation, Restful beauty or darkness, Deep human nature.