The darkness surrounding me was thick and heavy. I was just a kid, a teenager. Like most of my life, I couldn’t tell where I was. I was in the middle of an intersection. There was a field across from the intersection and before the field was a tall telephone pole. Then all around me was a 4-way stop. It was odd, though. As I strained to see anything down each path of roadway, there was nothing but darkness. The 4-way cross that I stood inside of had no lines painted, no signs hanging, no indication of which way was the right way to go. I began to sweat. My hands were trembling. My heart pounding. I knew I needed to make a decision, but I’d forgotten what the question was.

An "old friend" paid me a visit today. Not the kind that knocks on your door or sends a text, this friend has no physical form. He is an emotion. A feeling. He has been showing up, uninvited, for most of my life, though thankfully his visits have grown less frequent the older I get and the further I travel from the pain of my past. Some would call him depression. Some would call him fear. Some would call him nostalgia. I don't know what to call him. Abandonment? No, it's more than that. Loneliness? No, it's broader than that. Maybe he is all of those things wrapped together. What I do know is that he used to come around constantly. It has only been in recent years that I've felt any real relief from this feeling.

I went to my first PRIDE event today. The weather was beautiful. The sun was shining bright. The temperature was comfortable. The location was nice. James and I were engaged in small talk on the way there. Nothing serious.

Today was James’s birthday. Happy birthday, babe. To celebrate, we went to Cheddar’s for lunch and then to the movies. We were sitting in the lobby waiting to go into the auditorium because we were a bit early. I’m always too early, and James makes sure he reminds me of that every time.

Decades have passed, but the years have not marred the memory.

Here's two versions of my article on AI in Writing. The one on the left (in mobile the 1st one) is 100% mine. It is a rough draft. I didn't edit it. I didn't go back through and proofread it. As a matter of fact, I didn't read through it completely until I posted it on here. It's 100% the unadulterated first draft of the article that I wrote this morning. 

A little boy entered his bedroom with his head down and his eyes full of tears.

Dark Echoes: A Novella by Kevin W. McKee

I remember growing up in the 80s, in small-town America, when expectations felt different. When you’re young, there is almost always a glimmer in your eye, a hope in your dreams that time has not yet had the chance to destroy. I wanted to be something. I think that hope lives in all of us when we are children. I wanted to become something that touched people in profound ways. Even at eight or nine years old, my home life had already planted in me a longing for something better, a reaching for some future where life would finally feel different. In my mind, it was always later. Always years down the road. But I believed it with everything in me: one day, it would be better.

I read a post on Facebook recently, and it stuck with me all day. I kept turning it over in my mind. It said that “sin is sin,” and that homosexuality is just as bad as murder — and vice versa. Though it pained me a bit, I understand what they were trying to say, but I have a serious problem with that ideology.

I grew up as one of five: my parents, my twin, and an older brother. Our home was far from perfect. Arguments were common, and when my mother’s expectations weren’t met, words could turn sharp and objects could fly. I learned to duck a coffee cup or a lamp more than once. It was survivable—no one died—but it left marks. My mother loved us in her own way, and those rare, awkward hugs often felt worse than the harsh words.