For some reason, I remember it being a Thursday. With lightning speed, my dad’s callused right hand landed on my face. I lifted my arms in a feeble attempt to block the next blow, but the left hand was also successful in finding its target.
Writers
This carefully maintained dock holds a growing collection of the written word. Here, you’ll find thought provoking articles, unique stories, private letters, personal notes, deep musings, and occasionally, even poetry. Much of the content here has never been shared publicly. For whatever reason, some pieces were tucked away by the writer for years. Now, it’s all available for you.







