The stream of all of it was there. Flowing like a stream or perhaps the tears of my inner goddess, forbidden, cryptic, yet flowing with healing energy. I ran naked through the woods. Was I free? Were there dogs barking? Was the crackling underneath my feet my own. Or were they slave catchers? Slave catchers….
Tag: prose
Poor Patricia, Poor Sean, and White Draws
my reflection on the oscars, in prose. i think patricia was caught up in the moment, but will cut some slack because i dont think she interviews well and it probably came out all mumbled jumbled. i am black and gay so if she wants to put me to work, i could use some…
Brian Ragsdale Writer.com 