"Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet." Cyrus Farivar

Tuesday, March 12, 2013


I'm terribly sorry for the long hiatus! I've been so busy with school and college applications. But I promise I have been writing, I just have not had the time to post anything here. So hopefully you will get more regular updates of my backlog. 



            She peeked around the door. The saw was going again. Her mother said it was his job; that he wanted to please everyone.
            Other men made chairs or wardrobes. A passing gypsy carved whistles and little toys, selling them for pennies. But he built boxes. He’d ask questions, listen and nod. People would come to him all the time. Only then would the saw be powered on and the noise would start.
            “Charlotte, come away from there!” Her mother’s voice rang out. Startled, the girl ran up the creaking stairs and on the porch.
            “What have I told you about watching Uncle Owen?”
            “He only makes those boxes, mama,” she said, glancing back towards the wood barn.
            “It’s his job.”
            “But boxes? I don’t ever see ‘em again. And others make cupboards or tables.”
            “Aren’t Uncle Owen’s boxes pretty?”
            “Yes, mama. They have pretty shapes and smooth sides.”
            “What’s got smooth sides?” Turning, the little girl grinned up at her Uncle and hugged his legs.
            “Your boxes!”
            “Charlie, do you like my boxes?”
            “Yeah! She nodded eagerly, giving him a wide grin.
            “They are very special.”
            “Those people keep special things in your boxes?”
            “You could say that.”
            “Can I have one?”
            “Someday, Charlie.  I hope I don’t have to make it for you.”

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