It was a sunny day in the peaceful town of Dullville. Historians maintain that the town was named for a Mr. Herbert Dull, but I doubt it. More likely, somebody probably spent one day in the place and knew just what to call it. A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, and Dullville would still be Dullville. Anyway, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the bees were buzzing, and the grass was greener than ever. Along the sidewalks young maples stretched their leafy bran...

I will attempt to be neither pretentious nor insipid, to be sincere without being dramatic, and to be truthful without being bitter. In attempting all these, I'm pretty sure I will succeed in none. Writing a story is difficult because you have to choose a goal for your writing. Do you want to entertain, or do you want to be artistic? It's so hard to achieve more than one goal in any piece. Usually I write, and then halfway through I decide it's not good enough to finish. I lack follow-through...

I will attempt to be neither pretentious nor insipid, to be sincere without being dramatic, and to be truthful without being bitter. In attempting all these, I'm pretty sure I will succeed in none. Writing a story is difficult because you have to choose a goal for your writing. To do want to entertain, or do you want to be artistic? It's so hard to achieve more than one goal in any piece. Usually I write, and then halfway through I decide it's not good enough to finish. I lack follow-through ...

A pox on the Montague house for picking an ill-fortuned spouse - and I pox Capulet, home of sweet Juliette, 'cause Romeo has been such a louse!

Life went on much the same for almost a year. Every other day, I took Bible lessons from Nanny. On Sundays, I went to Mass. In my spare time, I did chores and took beatings from my father. Sometimes, when the sunlight turned the morning sky into a lavender blanket, I thought that maybe I was happy. Other times, when my father’s grip bruised my arms and the lashings swelled into welts, I knew that I wasn’t. One such ordinary day, I scrubbed the grimy stone floor of our dining hall. The house h...

Loving you is like loving a corpse. You are stiff to the touch, lifeless in my arms, yet I cling to you. I sob on your cold shoulder and beg you to speak to me. Your lips will never move. Loving you is like loving a shadow. You are there with me in the night, my silent companion, but I cannot look into your eyes. I flip on the light switch and you hide from my sight. I will never catch you. Loving you is like loving the wind. You gently whisper in my ear, a soothing breeze, and then bite me w...

It started with my mother, like most stories do. She gave birth to me, and I came into the world screaming like a banshee. I think I secretly screamed for the rest of my life. I killed her, you know. My head was so large that I tore her helpless body apart and killed her. My father always hated me for being a murderer. Even though he could barely stand the sight of me, my dad tried to be a good father. By that I mean that he felt it his duty to bring up the demon child he’d helped conceive. ...