"You say love my hair," she said, "but you don’t do anything with it."
She was right. I loved long hair. It’s a woman’s glory. She had soft silky black hair and I had taken it for granted. I liked looking at it. I liked knowing it belonged to me. I felt proud of it. But I had done nothing with it. I had taken it for granted. I had gotten lost in all her other splendors.
I reached out and started running my fingers through her hair.
She looked up at me, all soft and trusting and wanting to be stroked.
"Daddy’s home," I purred.
Khunrum emails my Advisory Committee: "Boys, what’s with the soft core drivel Luke is posting these days? Will his next literary offering be a bad Romance Novel? This might have been hot stuff a hundred years ago but for for 2009 it’s zzzzzzz!"
I’m stretching creatively. To write great, you have to allow yourself room to fail.
Khunrum emails: "I’d say you failed brother. I believe the only person interested in that type of writing would be a failed Nun. What’s next? Spice it up a bit boy."
Helpful writes: I fully support Luke’s new genre choice. Rip that bodice, Luke. Rip that bodice!
