Category Creative Writing

Redneck Chic and the Return of Gretchen Wilson

I think I am only slightly exaggerating when I say that being a redneck is sort of fashionable right now. Ever since the white working class proved decisive in the 2016 presidential election, both major parties are re-evaluating their relationship with an “embarrassing” voting bloc they believed they could ignore with impunity.  However, over a year ago, even before Donald Trump secured the Republican nomination, yours truly cautioned against writing

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More Than Just A Sequel: The Empire Strikes Back

Picture the scene: It’s 1980, summer’s approaching, and I’m impatiently awaiting the release of the most anticipated movie sequel of my fifteen years. Everyone knows there’s no way it can top its predecessor, so we’re settling for hoping it’ll at least measure up and remain true to the spirit of the original. Not only would that new installment turn out to be better than I could’ve hoped, it would eventually

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Duct Tape

Today, I decided to stop Duct taping my sides together. Holding guts inside Became too painful.   First, my lungs expanded Air rushed sweet into New distance My ribs no longer bound breath So when you gently touched hair Straying across my face, the wind did not stop, Continued filling my chest Blessing each breath   Second, each step Essential with connection, Your presence, humming electric, Illuminated fascia, connective tissues

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Remember, There Were No Remotes!

At seventy-two, my grandmother Linda recounted her memories of old with eager ease. The questions I asked triggered a flood of reminiscences of a young girl and her experiences with a now-very-distant world. The life Linda knew as a little girl is merely a distant memory of days gone by, and after our interview together, she realized just how far gone that world is today. Not better or worse—just different.

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Get the Message

A poem is an equation written on the wind, lasting only for as long as the memories that transmit it from one seeker to the next. The poet is an ego-driven chronicler writing to be remembered while claiming that the message is what matters most, despite the fact that the message hasn’t changed since the advent of the printed word, or longer. I can imagine the last of the species

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The Joys of a Good Morning’s Sleep

Here’s a thing about me: I hate getting out of bed in the morning. When I was young, my mother warned me to always be careful about using the word “hate.” It was a powerful thing, she told me. It could hurt others’ feelings and eventually turn me into a bitter person. It couldn’t be taken back, either. Once I spoke it into being, it was there to stay. So trust

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