This is an excerpt from my larger piece.

This is my attempt to go “on the body” and to speak to a decisive and pivotal moment of truth for the 4 year old main character in my story. 

I try to be ” in the moment” and to add the element of “universal truths” in order to speak to the reader without “reporting” the event to the reader.  

I love the learning process. I hope you gain something from it, too.

Criticism and comments welcome.

From (currently) page 30 of  “Stingray”:

“Let me see your head again. Mom said.

The mix of unclean and shame wormed up from my inside and settled hot on my cheeks. Mom holding on to me out in front of God and everybody going baboon through my hair. I wanted her to put her arms around me to tell me everything was ok. I wanted her hands to stop poking and to brush my hair down. I wanted her to say, it’s alright dear or how’s my brave little soldier. Say something sweet like a TV mom.  She found the goose egg on the back of my head and pushed. Still no blood. 

Oh, you’re alright. My not TV mom said. Now go on in the house with the boys.

No pain from the bump on my head, but my backside stung like punishment. That spot in my gut ached. That spot where I kept all my good. That spot that tells you everything is going to be alright after you go and do something like fall off a bike, and you come home and your mom tells you it’s all ok? Well, that spot stayed empty. Sore.”



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