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What happened to Shirley? Her brother was shot and she lived her life feeling shrapneled. I wish I could tell you her story. I’ll tell you what I know. Read the rest of this entry »

Seldom is a second human needed. Even perfect love doesn’t require two. A half-orphan girl may argue with herself, a widow take her own counsel. A husband, who is also a father, may kill both men and himself, without involving another, and leave one body behind. Read the rest of this entry »

My mother draws her breath like a bad cartoon. No doctors can tell us what’s wrong with her, so we don’t let them see her. She was always busy living, proliferating. Read the rest of this entry »

She stands seven feet tall or taller when she stands, to his scant five-and-a-half, but she will never stand again. Felled by the foul murder of her only child, she will bear him now forever mother eternal across the sawhorses of her monumental marble legs. Read the rest of this entry »

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The pen name David B Dale honors my parents Beatrice and Dale. David+B+Dale = davidbdale

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