By: Richard D. Hartwell My Morning Journal opening entry seems to capture an element of my fixation as a writer. Is there really a compulsion to write? For some there must be, but I think my own compulsion is now…
By: Richard D. Hartwell You could say that the trip decided itself. In the car, on the way to Adalanto, neither of them can agree who had brought up the idea first, let alone how it was finalized. But by six-thirty…
By: Richard D. Hartwell She’d been plying him with gifts for a month or so. He started to stay over about halfway through the month. A few of his uniform things hung in her closet, but mostly the new things…
By: Richard D. Hartwell Not for the first time, Perhaps for the last, I note this is no monologue, Rather a continuing, one-sided dialogue. You, Sitting there embalmed On your judgmental stool. You, Calling yourself a person of discourse Are…
By: Richard D. Hartwell Suffer anguish of memory, family close as sticky-rice, grain to grain, gene to gene, coagulated and congealed. Cannot un-remember psychological molestation, brutality of hidden scars, rage of emotional rape. Dark memories filled with white lies, spoiled…
By: Richard D. Hartwell It must have been about 1955 or ‘56 when I was first a procurer for my cousin Jocelyn. I don’t recall whose idea it was to sell from door to door, but it fell to me…