Charlie Marlowe Never Wrote Horror, But Somehow

Sometimes Kindness Can Be Delivered In A Clumsy Way.

My Breathing Slowed. I Shaded Her Thick Chestnut Hair Resting In A Smooth Curve Against Her Face, A Large Bruise Blazing Across Her Cheek. I Paused, Looking Over My Shoulder To Make Certain I Was Alone. I Drew Her Eye Makeup, Smudged By Tears. In Her Watery Eyes I Drew The Reflection Of The Commander, Standing In Front Of Her, His Fist Clenched. I Continued To Sketch, Exhaled, And Shook Out My Hands.

I'm A Binge Writer. I Work In The Music Business Fulltime, In Artist Management And Developing Songwriters And Recording Artists, And So Juggling My Job I Carve Out As Much Time As I Can On The Weekends.

One Day When I Was Fourteen, I Told Charlie That I Hated Mother. “don’t Hate Her, Jo,” He Told Me. “feel Sorry For Her. She’s Not Near As Smart As You. She Wasn’t Born With Your Compass, So She Wanders Around, Bumping Into All Sorts Of Walls. That’s Sad.” I Understood What He Meant, And It Made Me See Mother Differently. But Wasn’t There Some Sort Of Rule That Said Parents Had To Be Smarter Than Their Kids? It Didn’t Seem Fair.

Sometimes There Is Such Beauty In Awkwardness. There's Love And Emotion Trying To Express Itself, But At The Time, It Just Ends Up Being Awkward.