Why would life be so unfair to me? What have I done to deserve all this pain and, hardship? Sometimes I sit alone, lost in the quiet hum of the night, questioning every breath I take, every step I make. I search my heart for answers that never come, and the silence feels heavier than words.
What sin did I commit to be born into such deprivation?
“Everyone is going to stare. Don’t make eye contact or speak to anyone. They’ll ask for money.”
“What about family?”
They’re even worse. Just look mean.”
Continue reading “The Two Ringed Hotplate by Michael Shawyer”
It shone over Hayfield, South Dakota, and George Angus ran his hand through straws of Hard Red Winter Wheat. Cream colored leaves. He used his hand to shield against the sun and fixed his eyes on the old oak tree upon the hill. Then down again. Frail dryness. Like the touch of Mary’s hand. He looked at his own hands, dry but not frail. Quite sturdy. Sharp lines, trenches from a working life. He ran his palm over his scruffy wide face.
literally stories 