The needle’s tip pierced the cotton, closing battle scars with fabric stitches; those clothes had to wrestle with the weather, the dirt, tree houses, and rough play as well as crumbs and drooled juice. If anyone else had to see my mother’s eyes, they would know that the sun cannot burn as hot as anger nor as fierce.


3 comments so far

  1. sandy on

    great writing exerpt

  2. Skittles on

    Thanks for being such a faithful HoT player. I’ll try to get it going again asap.

  3. Calico Crazy on

    Your writing is intriguing, I want to know more.

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