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This is from a journal I wrote In my creative writing class back in January. We were told to keep a journal and to write in it everyday. This was my first entry.

"Monday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day. This whole day, set out for one of the most inspirational people of all time. This day, signifies so much more than just a man. It signifies so much more than just what that man did. This day, represents a legacy, a powerful fight, a living legend, and a future of equality promised.

I am sitting in a restaurant. It's such a blessing to know that the Afro-American community does not have to enter through the back door and …

            It's hard to live up to a standard of something you are not. A chainsaw without its blades is not a chainsaw. A vampire without his fangs is not a vampire. I am a bat...
...a bat with no wings.
            Transylvania is haunted by the bat families that dwell in the castles which overshadow the city below. This citadel which my father, Malachi Grosvenor, created is no longer a refuge for me. Once I reached the where I was capable of caring for myself, I was shunned from the family, away from any sort of contact. Many rats moved here after the plague of many decades ago and live below the mountains in which my family casts over. My house resides …

I've seen the ignorance rising over rooftops,
calling for emergency helicopters and rescue.
It's taken over like a tropical awakening and is
illuminating itself on a stage for all to see.
The selfishness is combusting and
only starving for more and more.
Give me light or let me go home.
I cannot stand for this any longer.
The shins of each member being kicked
by a driven force and faltered to be left.
Twitching, and trying to regain stability,
it pulls back up onto its own feet.
The ignorance is a masturbating whale,
just an eye sore of various sorts.
Flexible to begin with, as it gains soldiers,
the forces are unbearable and there are no
walls strong enough to withstand their blow.Read more »

"What'll it be?" Mrs. Rosenthal had the voice of a giant muppet.
"Violin...I want to be a violin."
"WHAAT?" Her arms flailed dust around the musty old music room, "You want to be a violin?" My face reddened.
Yes! I wanted to say. Yes! I want to be the violin! I want to be shiny and pretty and high-pitched and held up. I wanted to be Marcy. Marcy was all light and spring-smelling and baby-pink. Marcy was a violin; a first-chair of life, held up high by the fifth grade. One subtle nod from her and the whole world started playing. Maybe if I played the violin I would be important, too; not all lank and gawk and gap and grease like I …

It's hard to say for sure, but I'm fairly confident I could have been engaged to be married tonight, had I answered differently.

It all started this afternoon as the Doraville train pulled up to the platform at Five Points. There's always a frantic rush for open doors and empty seats that commands your attention and mad ninja skills. At a minimum, this usually involves elbow-jabbing, body bashing, a clandestine foot trip - to be completely unaware is to risk an incident similar to the Pamplona bull run. I had an eye on my door before the train even rolled to a stop, had already assumed the ready/set/lunge position, accompanied by the surge of adrenaline that precedes the possibility of an air-conditioned seat …

“Faith in Friction. Steep Creep. Baby Bottom Bowl. Everyone has heard of the Slickrock Trail. I mean, not everyone everyone, but practically everyone. At least everyone who mountain bikes, and then some. The trail, all 12 tortuous miles of it, is like a mantra among bikers, a sort of against-all-others gauge. Slickrock, they ask, as climbers might ask K2 or Kilimanjaro, or as kayakers might ask Cataract Canyon or Zambezi. Slickrock is, in a word, both beginning and end, first and last. Yes and no.” – Slickrock Article Contributor

It was our day to try Slickrock and day six of our travels in Moab, UT. We had already tackled Cataract Canyon on a four day, three night whitewater rafting excursion and had hiked …

Every summer, like clockwork, my parents would take my sister and me to Galveston Beach, about an hour down the coast from our home on the Texas Gulf shore. Like everything else when you are raised by Chinese-American immigrants, these joyful excursions came with a catch: Dad, in his infinite wisdom, insisted that my younger sister and I wear bright orange and yellow life jackets while swimming. You can imagine the embarrassment a ten-year-old feels wading knee-deep into the ocean with a life jacket strapped to her. Horror of horrors should a classmate espy me in my pathetic getup.

It’s not that Dad didn’t know we were great swimmers. He was the one who footed the bill for swimming lessons every year. But …

Dear friends,

You might be looking for reasons, but there a no reasons. The whole story is I am sad. I am sad all the time, and the saddness is so heavy that I can't get away from it. Not ever. There used to be days I thought I was okay, or at least I was going to be. We'd be hanging out somewhere and everything would fall into place, and I would think it'll be okay, if everything would just stay like this forever. But of course, nothing can just stay the same forever. I never laughed as hard as I laughed with you, but now, even the laughter hurts.


My life so far is being out in nowhere. I never know whats going on because i am too deep into my thoughts blocking out what's really going on. Once i am in reality..all i want is back into my world.

I am a first time author and I have written a book about my own personal experience. My direct web page -
Through the writing my book, I have found the strength and hope to come back from a very dark place. My greatest wish would be to impart that message to others. We can all achieve that. There is a place deep inside of us that remains untapped, unless you reach your lowest point, and allow the soul within you to take hold. Today my outlook on life is so very different, instead of the glass being half empty, the glass is half full.
There is always a light at the end of the tunnel; my aim is to reassure that.Read more »

I moved to Memphis, TN last July. I left the small Virginia town I'd grown up in and bounced back to many times over the last decade. I was thirty-two years old and believed I was as lost and broken as a person could possibly be. I thought the move would fix things.

Fix things it didn't. Shortly before moving my boyfriend broke up with me. I had planned on his support, long-distance as it might be, and couldn't imagine doing it without him. As the movers packed my stuff into a truck, I sat on the front porch, sunglasses pulled tight over my face, crying. I should have been focused on the fact that the movers were drunk and seemed to be …

I am stumbling through a forest. The light is getting dim. As the sky rapidly fades to black, I hear a muffled voice. It is hard to understand the words, but I can sense the urgency in the voice. It’s getting clearer now as I get closer to it. Finally, I hear it as clear as a cloudless day.

“Come out with your hands up. We are not going away. We are prepared to come in and get you.”

Suddenly, the light is back. I begin searching for a clear path that will help me get out of the forest. I stare out, wiling my eyes to focus. Finally, I can see the prickly plaster on my ceiling. I realize I have been …

Below are 5 short short stories that would like to share. Each story is 55 words or less. I live and work in the Washington DC area and my passions are writing and playing the banjo. I especially enjoy writing poetry and coming up with new word associations that are powerful and creative. I wish all Smith writers the best on your writing journey.


Middle-aged Dan sat down for lunch one day and chomped into his 5,000th hamburger. On the first bite, a tail sprouted from his sternum. Horns shot from his brow on the second bite. He tried calling for help when hooves replaced his shoes on the third bite, but all he could do was moo.


I could hear them chattering and laughing downstairs. I sensed their excitement gurgling up, popping like bubbles with every giggle and joyful squeal. It was a beautiful spring afternoon and, for my kids, a perfect day to go bike riding.

It was only a matter of moments before they’d come running into the dark cocoon of my bedroom. I lay under the covers purposefully exhaling slowly through my mouth, trying hard to quell the gorge in my throat and dam the tears welling up in my eyes. I knew it was a matter of moments before I’d need to muster the strength and say “please go, I’m napping”. My voice mustn’t quaver or they’d worry, but I wanted to remain in the dark and …

I was born outside “Da Region” in rural Northwest Indiana. I must admit I had no idea there was a “Da Region” until I moved away - at which point I learned that people in far off places such as Florida and Washington were intimately familiar with this legendary place. “Da Region” is loosely defined as that area outside Chicago where the mob finds it convenient to eliminate their “excess baggage” - if...yous know what I mean. It’s close enough to make for a pleasant drive without being so close as to stink up their beloved Chicagoland.

This all makes it sound like quite an exciting place, but from immediately outside this nebulous region it was not so much interesting as...well...the precise opposite …

Atheists literally believe in Nothing, so it would be hard to argue that they have Anything of great significance to say or write about. But for the most "faithful" among them, I noticed their hearts were recently warmed by the utterances of one of their "high priests" (a reference I'm aware makes them bristle, being so against religion, and rightly so. Better to be spiritual than religious. Organized religions have been, are and will be throwing wrenches into humanity's material, mental and spiritual evolution until they become DIS-organized. So there's where I do agree with atheists.)

That "high priest" (among many, add Vanity Fair's starchild Christopher Hitchens) is the brilliant British scientist and thinker Stephen Hawking. In his latest opus "The Grand Design" (presumably …

Over thirty years ago I wrote "a beat sheet" titled "The Sound of 171 Pictures" as the basis for a videoplay. I had recently helped complete an experimental video titled "Available Light" and I was itching to create something new and better.

"Available Light" was funded by a $10,000 New York State Council On The Arts grant shared with pioneer video producer David Rose and Harlem-born painter and poet Stanley Welsh Duke. This was the age when video cameras had just appeared on the scene, and were the size of a knapsack, and if you lugged them around they seemed to weigh a ton with their huge batteries.

"Available Light" was based on a psychic reading given me by Spiritualist medium Ralph …

There was not only a physical compatibility which we happened upon that cold March night, but there also appeared this intangible spiritual embrace: artistic, young, friendly (if those words could be used to describe lovers).

For a year we walked through public institutions and Livonia, New York backroads, through universities and cosmopolitan slums, eating scholarly criticisms and digesting innovative spirits. We shat out poems.

At home we baked fresh breads and sipped beer from Chinese cups, incensing the air with our mere presence.(Our elders would anger at just the fact of our being. When we tried to explain, it only enraged them. So we wrote.)

At work we confronted Public, that suspicious abstract that walks into your home without saying …

I am a first time author and I have written a book about my own personal experience. My direct web page –

After an accident in which I injured my back, I was ill health retired. This has given me the time and dedication to put pen to paper. My life was no longer full, and I found myself with an abundance of alone time, to sit and reflect everything I had tried so hard to bury. Although this has been extremely difficult for me, my hope is that anyone finding themselves in the same type of situation may take some strength from its content. If this book were to be catalogued where would it fall, a true account, a personal …

When my oldest son Mike was in kindergarten, he came home upset from school one day. He said that a schoolmate had teased him over the fact that his mother had an accent. Mike didn’t know what the kid was talking about. “You don’t have an accent!” Mike said to me.

Well, actually I do.

My parents, sister and I came to the US when I was nearly fourteen years old, and I did not speak much English at the time. I learned quickly, and in a year or so I was almost fluent. But the accent, and I like to believe that it is slight after all these years, has lingered on.

In high school and college, when I yearned …
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