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 it 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.
