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This examines the life of my father, an American master mariner of the twentieth century, with a view toward showing the aspects of mastery, not merely his mastery, but what goes into mastering any career, profession, or art. Feedback desired: Does it sound true? Useful? Like a good read?

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as proms approach i am reminded of my senior prom

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This is Just a little pondering over some bad coffee.

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Some days just stick with us. All comments welcome.

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¿Brevity is the soul of wit?

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Another story from my childhood, or part of it. Maybe I should have tagged this sci-fi too; it happened. Coincidence? You decide. This will be included in a book of short stories one day, so any feedback will be helpful.

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This is a life of an American master mariner in the 20th century.

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An essay, published in "Write for the Fight: A Collection of Seasonal Essays." ALL proceeds from the book sale go to breast cancer research. Submitted and chosen for a slot in the book, along with three other life essays I composed. This one is my favorite. I'm not sure if this is the copy of the one which was edited or not. I'm open to any critique.

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when your mind travels back in time you can remember so much.

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Sometimes past memories resurface at the most unlikely locations . . . (NOTE: I have also corrected the editing so that it reads in paragraphs. My apologies for the original formatting problem.)

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A Man Chosen By God Though I may be to the world, Viewed only as a man of sin; Still, I longed to be one of them. A man called by my Creator, His very own. In my quest, I cast my eyes upon the face of Islam. Sincere did I cry, ‘Show me a Muslim.’ In sadness, he turned not in peace and righteousness. Rather, he was a trader in a war against his brother. In pain, I continued my lifelong quest. I was tired of being lost in the desolation of my sin. Yet, I longed to be someone different. I honestly desired to be one chosen by Him. I focused my eyes upon the face of Judea. Again, I prayed, ‘Show me the Chosen of God.’ Alas, the face returned not covered by God’s grace. Rather, the idols from my world adorned him. Discouraged, I wailed as I mournfully went. ‘In my heart, I know God does exist!’ I continued seeking my way to God, My soul yearned to connect with Him. Finally, a dishearten man stood at the foot of the cross. A man lost in sin and alone on the pathway of Life. I journeyed to the tomb where they declared Jesus laid. However, the angel replied He that I sought was not there. The one I sought one day came down from heaven. To show a man like me, the way I really should be. He took upon Himself the punishment meant for me Just so, I can have the power to become a Son of God. In my search, I soon encountered a tribe name Christian. To them, I proclaimed my love for the one who died for me. Regretfully, in him, I did not see a son of God that day. The one I saw loved the world and enslaved my race. Therefore, only to the Anointed One of God, I will cry. He filled me with the power of the Spirit of God. He removed from me my sinful unrighteous heart. At last, I can now finally stand as a man chosen by God. {{{Any feed back given will be appreciated and applied.}}}

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A brief recollection. This was written a while back but only hours after the actual event and it remains largely and purposely unchanged. I welcome any and all feedback but I'd really like to know your immediate thoughts. Specifically if the experience resonates or falls short. Reaction to sentiment varies greatly and sentimental pieces run a great risk of devolving into emotional drivel, but, either way, I owed him this.

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This is a shortened version of a story I already posted here. I just entered it in a contest on stories about first love. They had to be no more than 250 words. Think it'll fly?

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True story

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More Mahoney

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Reposting for Humour Contest. I think I got all the nits, but would appreciate any I missed. If you've reviewed it before, I did change the punch line up a bit. Let me know what you think.

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I'm going to post this true story on my blog in three, easy to digest parts. I would really appreciate another set of eyes on this before I do. I'm still a little bitter and may have missed a few nits. If there's a better way to word something, please, let me know. Thank you so much!

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I ❤ to garden....ummm... to watch others garden (vbg)

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I took a break from writing for a day because I was invited out on a friend's boat. I guess the writer in us never really shuts up. The following is a blog post I wrote about the day. All feedback/nits appreciated.

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Who would have thought after 44 years he would finally seek me out... NOTE -- Changed rating only for Chapter 3

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A father recounts some memorable moments of tension between his two young children as they take a short trip to visit grandparents. Any feedback regarding the style and quality of narrative, dialogue and action will be appreciated.

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I believe this story crosses over into the genre of creative non-fiction. It entails a young soldier's story of abandonment and his desire to survive during a European winter storm. The British dialect is rather edgy and needs to be read out aloud to really "hear" it well. Thanks and enjoy.

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Chad was a plumber, He wanted to be a celebrity chef. He embraced life and loved his family. He laughed at nothing. He laughed at everything. He was my nephew. I share my memories with you. Irene Hamilton.

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This is a rewrite of Christmas George(never liked the title). This happened when I was 14 and tells the story of how I learned about Christmas and also how you never know what your actions mean to a stranger I am interested in feedback about anything that disrupts the flow of the story or causes confusion to the reader. -Micky

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I would like to know, if I could improve the story and make more interesting. Your honest comments for improvement will be taken very seriously. Thanks in advance.

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A first-person adult narration of an eight-year old boy's defiance and mischief, and of course, the consequences that result when the adults who love him, find his behavior deserving of their intervention.

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A first-person adult narration of a young boy's introduction to bigotry in the rural, early 1970's South and the change brought about by his mother's demand that all people be treated as equals and with respect. The dialogue is sometimes tough to follow given it is patterned to be be more colloquial and authentic in inflection, idiom or dialect. I'm looking for feedback of any type given writing succinctly and writing it right are my main goals for the moment. Thanks for any comments you can contribute.

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A page for the annals of the poor, put-upon volunteers that man our election precincts.

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A piece of narrative non-fiction (creative non-fiction) about a serious time in my life when my faith was shaken. All feedback welcome.

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This is a cool/funny/sad true story that happened to my youngest son this last weekend. I've written it in his POV. I'm going to post it on my blog, but I want to cut about 30 words. So, any edits you have to offer... Nits/comments/suggestions always are greatly appreciated.

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Any feedback. I think it could use a lot of cleaning up and streamlining, so let me know your impressions. Just a day in the life.....

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Blast from the past in my file folders--the real kind that hang on metal frames.

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This was hard to classify. Harder to write. I'm not sure what I'll do with the story after all is said and done. As for feedback...nits, as usual. My awful sense for tense needs addressing as well. Thanks for any and all feedback.

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October 15th is Pregnancy and Child loss remembrance day. I just needed to honor Flint somehow.

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~

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My golden retriever finally crossed the bridge last month. She pulled all-nighters with me as I toiled over Client Relations. I wrote a slightly different version of this memorial for her, which was posted by the golden retriever rescue group from which I got her in 1998. (The Summer of '12 had so much suffering and death... As my routine slowly returns, I'm trying to settle back into the serious concentration demanded by my novel revisions, and long-delayed r&rs.)

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A memory of a time long past. A bittersweet piece of prose as the anniversary of the loss of half the duo approaches. Submitting the piece to The Magnolia Quarterly.

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I've wrestled with whether to write this memoir of my childhood for several years, but ultimately decided it would be worthwhile. I'm interested to know how this piece comes across to others.

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I know this could be longer, and I think what it needs most is a more descriptive opening (maybe) But I was mostly looking for "tug" factor, and I wanted it to be kinda fast and dirty. IF ever finished this will be written into a series of letters or diary entries or maybe even recorded therapy sessions. The premise is that all of our lives are made of memories, and memories are a series of very short stories. This is true, exactly as it happened, so changing the sequence or dialog is probably a non starter.

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I'm surprised that I have written this let alone published it here. But I'm glad I have and I would appreciate editing feedback because I feel quite wrung out having written this far and I know it might be a mite confused. Sorry about that but over to you now.

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