The Open Door

A gray smudge smeared across the city as a steady drench poured on the usual congested traffic. Taxis swerved in and out of lanes. Bicycle messengers pumped with helmets pointed…

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Why I Write Too

By: R.H. Nicholson      It is probably not possible for someone to devote a persistent part of his life to writing without contemplating his reasons. Perhaps it started with George…

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