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All I’ve got is muscles and rage. If you don’t believe me, ask my knuckles. They’ve tasted more jawbones than average, blued more eyeballs, cracked a dozen ribs, and busted more cheeks than I can count. There’s more teeth embedded in my fists than bone.
Stealthy in bare feet
three bandits come.
Prize swivels high between
striped green leaves.
“What’s the commotion?” Agnes Whittaker called out. First the party line went off. Then Tim, the neighbor boy, shot out of his front door, his face the color of baking soda. He hopped on his bike and pedaled furiously down the sidewalk. At the sound of her voice, he skidded to a halt a few feet shy of the porch.
Why I love telling stories
I spent many hours of my childhood perched in trees and sprawled in sunny hallways lost in the pages of a book. In the evenings, my family gathered in the living room to listen to my dad read stories to us, ranging from The Lord of the Rings to Little Britches. Those were some of my favorite moments growing up.
Stories inspired me to be braver, to try new things, and to put myself in others’ shoes. When I moved far away from home, stories helped me connect to the people and places I encountered.