A few days ago I saw a High School aged girl with "I heart Stevie" written on her hand. I started wondering when I outgrew that particular phase . . . and then realized that hadn't (at least that I could remember) ever written anything like that on my hand. I was always too shy to do something like that and would covertly doodle boys' names in my note books and sometimes sketch their faces, eyes, and hands. Or I would write love poetry. I still sometimes do these things, depending on how hard I am crushing. The funny thing is that the older I get, the more I have the tendency to randomly admit to my deepest crushes and distrubute my poetry to them and anyone else who will read it. So who really is more audacious?
Something strange happened this month: I missed my 12 Short Stories deadline. There have been many things changing in my life, and I’ve realized that there are a few things I will need to put less energy into. That doesn’t mean I won’t write anymore, but that I may write less, or may just focus on longer pieces. That being said, I did write something, it just didn’t meet the word count. So here is one more story. It’s not a story about politics, it’s a story about human nature and human feelings. ——— The war is over, or at least that is what they say. But how do you stop such a thing once it is started? Charles sighed when I asked him, “You act as if you don’t understand politics.” “I don’t,” I scratched a sliver of paint off the window with a razor, “I’m not even sure we should be doing this.” “They said we could remove the blackout paint,” Charles swiped an even curl of latex to the ground. It fell among the budding roses, an artificial petal. “But there are still soldiers ove