Wrightings

J. L. Wright Lari Jo Wallace Edwards Sharon Purcell  

Born in the sixties, from a jungle on the other side of the world, body bags on the nightly news were counted. Growing up in the seventies those enemies became church refugees dark skin, smooth voiced, heartthrobs In the eighties, the world was mine eager to explore and learn  ready to make a dent of change Real world crashed the nineties living in a daily grind paying back with nothing to pay forward  The aughts, depressed mortality  paternal loss looking for something  shifting ideas and ideals Teens gifted financial independence  freedom to escape expectations  filling someone else’s dreams Now, the twenties, twist the flesh hoping to be top shelf

  Frost  The new calf lies in the matted grass. Her tired mother stands protective Crisp blades cut the umbilical cord like frost on a wire a bubble of stillness Standing alone The braided wire, taunt a fence between matted grasses mottled with frost bubbles  and frost teeth

The books of the world  do not have all the answers  or all the stories. So, here I write something familiar,  relatable but new. Let my words rattle your gut knock loose undigested tales the ones set aside  like cold mashed potatoes  when there is giblet dressing. There may not be room enough  but hold fast  measure their importance weigh out staples of caloric intake but do not throw them out. These stories are common,  leftovers shall we say, cheap and easy to improve. Some better more substantial more satisfying. But do they really need  more butter  or gravy?