“Tell Me A Story.”

Long ago, in our childhood, my younger sister would say this to me as we tried to fall asleep at night. Our life behind closed doors was far from the perfect family facade we were coerced into living for an abusive father.

My sister died on July 17, 1995. She had been in a coma since her car lost control in a curve in the early morning hours of July 15, 1984. Not wearing her seatbelt, she was thrown from her car and her head hit a utility pole.

I saw her there, in ICU, my beautiful golden haired, blue-eyed sister. From birth to graduation, people called her “Doll.” Beautiful inside and out, smart and funny. Now she lies in her bed, fingernails and toenails perfectly polished.

She’s on life support, the front side of her hair shaved and the stitches mark the place where they removed part of her skull as her brain swelled. One cut on her chin that didn’t even require stitches is her only other injury.

“Tell Me A Story.” I hear her say this to me in a whisper all these decades later. My pen now whispers across pages, notebooks filled with pages of all the words. So, though I haven’t been able to do her justice, I will not give up.

Dearest of sisters, my Sidekick through life, I haven’t given up, I’ve only been side-tracked by that man we used to call Daddy. He’s proven his worthlessness and I delete him for his depravity.

I remember how we huddled together, laughing silently as I told you stories making the real monster raging in another room into a comical coward, one we could blow away when we synchronized our breath.

For My Sister

Caught in the Web

Droplets

I took this picture of rain droplets caught in a spider web, but Rico Mack was caught in the World Wide Web.

Oh, he likes people to see his facade, the public perfect family persona, he only has a problem with me, his oldest kid, Khaki Mack. I am part of the(fictional) public, so what he chooses to make public includes me. I know too much and he can’t control me with fear, or threats, or lies, or lawsuits.

Finally, I see the finish line and I run across it, beating him with truth. He is a bad liar and a sore loser, and me? I’m ready for a new race, a new story. Tired of the same track and the same loser trying to beat me.

When this is over, my blog might take shape and maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll finally be free of his life of lies.

Code Name? Spaghetti! 😋

Spaghetti.

Undercover. Flying Monkey. Dispatched by my brother, I happily help him wreak havoc with the woman I’ve been jealous of since Thibodaux High 1960’s.

Feeling pretty confident. We’ve gotten away with it since 1984. I’m in my 80’s now. Sooo…yeah. I think I’ve been an awesome Flying Monkey!

A. Little-Strange

Hi! I’m new to the world, just popped out of my writer’s head. I hear others screaming and screaming to get out, but this woman…you others take my advice and ESCAPE WITH YOUR LIFE!

I know who I am and I just barged in on her “real world.” Who is she kidding? WE are her real world!

A. Little-Strange

Dear Hubby,

I’ll take one of each. Please. And thank you. ❣👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇🥰

Dream Job? Writers Wanted! Your “voice” is unique. Use it or lose it. I am a Warrior Woman, a Write Fighter.

TBI Traumatic Brain Injury

To my baby sister. My sidekick through life.
We three …you in your coma; our Mama/Momma and me.

Psychological trauma. Pathological drama. Coercive Control
Flashbacks?
Solve the puzzle. Solve the puzzle.
Under Construction
Solving Puzzles
Right Brain, Left Brain
I am never too old to learn something new.

We lost her twice

Sheesh before the wreck

Sheesh after the wreck

My own brain

Processing

Progressing