“Will I have to use a dictionary to read your book?" asked Mrs. Dodypol. "It depends," says I, "how much you used the dictionary before you read it.”
― Alexander Theroux, Darconville’s Cat

“Few activities are as delightful as learning new vocabulary.”
― Tim Gunn, Tim Gunn: A Guide to Quality, Taste & Style

“To enjoy and learn from what you read you must understand the meanings of the words a writer uses. You do yourself a grave disservice if you read around words you don’t know, or worse, merely guess at what they mean without bothering to look them up.

For me, reading has always been not only a quest for pleasure and enlightenment but also a word-hunting expedition, a lexical safari.”
― Charles Harrington Elster

Barbara Peters ran down the empty alleyway, hair unkempt, clothes disheveled, and one shoe missing. She’d twisted her ankle and was having to limp as fast as she could.
Glancing behind her, her eyes widened as she picked up her pace as best she could. As best she could with the bleeding, gaping wounds in her arms.
The woman had been out for a night on the town, hopping from nightclub to nightclub and getting more and more drunk. She was celebrating her birthday, and with no one else around her, she’d decided to celebrate it alone.
That had been a mistake.

There once was an old man who, on one night, while resting in a chair, that was sitting on a porch, thought to himself the most curious of things. And this, that he thought, to put quite simply, was a question that most in their short lives have asked, and that is, what if.

It was the year of 1968. The date, September 8th. Don’t ask me how I remember. Ain’t that hard to forget. I push up on the thin nose-piece of my clear Revue spectacles. With the cool winds kissing my neck, tingling up my spine, I close my eyes, remembering that walk down Oak View on my way to Merket, the town’s only playground that lies in the back of the single elementary school (it mainly occupied the sunny, naïve mothers as they burrow themselves into the activities of their youngest school child…

It was September twenty-first, 2017, at precisely twelve-thirty-seven in the afternoon. It happened at Roosevelt High School, when lunch was being served. It was the usual Thursday setup: macaroni and cheese with green beans, chicken nuggets, and milk (2%, skim free). Delores had just received her meal from the cafeteria ladies and sat down in her usual spot: two tables away from the exit, facing the center of the cafeteria so she could see everything going on. She usually sat by herself; she didn’t have time for friends, and no one had time for her.

I made it to the hallway and closed the door to the bedroom till there was just a crack. Every step I take is silence as I go heel to toe on the bare carpet. My legs feel like noodles and my heart is in my stomach. I have to pass all 5 rooms filled with my 17 brothers and sisters while I make my way through the finished basement. We are not allowed to leave our beds at night, if you need to pee you hold it. My eldest brother loved enforcing this rule.

They'll be back,
from the black.
That's their home.
All so alone,
down to the bone.
And always with the tone.
So angry sometimes,
from hurt and lies.