My dad was a lefty trained to be a righty. He would be about 70 if he were still alive. I, on the other hand, am a lefty too and it was always accepted.

My left-handed sister is Scrappy's age and she was given a hard time. They tied my grandmother's left hand behind her to make her write right handed. It made her stutter, which is pretty common. That left-handed gene must be pretty powerful. Most of my mother's family is left handed. As is true of so many things with my family, as a righty I'm the odd man out.

My family seems to have found good luck when it comes to the lefties or else they're just hella strong-willed. My mother was a lefty and my middle brother. Mike was in Milwaukee elementary schools from 4th through 8th grade (1964-68) and I don't remember anyone giving him grief about it. I'm sure if they did, my mother put fear of the wrath of her strong left hand into them.

My oldest brother is functionally right-handed now because they gave him trouble for writing with his left hand up through 4th grade, I think. That was in the early 60s.

Safe Sex

Hush. Put your tongue back in your mouth, and watch. This is a serious demonstration. There!

Yeah, I cut that carrot in half.

We can still do it. As long as I'm not mad or frightened I have control. Yeah, even then.

We just have some extra rules. You have to be gentle. We can't risk doing it where we might be startled or interrupted. Yeah, those variations could be an exception, but your hands better not wander in moments of passion.

If this doesn't scare you off, one cliché is critical: we must never, ever go to bed angry.

D was born in '77 and learned to write in SoCal. He doesn't remember anyone trying to make him a rightey.

I was born, er, a lot of years earlier than your DH. I was encouraged to use my right hand as a kid - which may have encouraged by cross-dominance. So I ended up with really terrible handwriting. But what really messed me was in middle school, a "progressive" principle decided that I was really a lefty who had been switched to the right against my will (even though I did not remember it that way) and put me through special tutoring to switch me to my left. I never learned to write with my left hand, but the writing in my right had (which had been bad but legible) turned completely unreadable.

The machinery drabble is now closed.

The new prompt is in the dark.

bring light

The booth smells like cigarettes and plywood. She knows her way around it by touch; she moves invisibly behind the glass. Leather gloves on the pads of her palms, black clothing, black hair, black eyes. In the depths it bustles with unseen activity, here all is stillness in preparation. She is alone.

The squeak of the stool as she slides into place, muffled chatter on the radio. Out there the audience waiting, breathless, in the dark.

"And...go spot." Her machine flares suddenly into life, setting the stage ablaze with its flesh toned glow. The show is on. Sit back, enjoy.

In the dark. God, the most terrifying place to be is in this darkness.

Not a mere absence of light dark, but a mental blackout: I am IN THE DARK.

And there's no way for light to illuminate those lost hours. No dim corridor through which I can struggle my way to understanding, even a partial one. For I have been in the dark, and the darkness is following me. I can never be rid of it. I can learn things about it, but those things do not make the whole brighter; they simply add another level of stygian to the blackout that eats my soul.

In the dark? No; that would be too simple. It infers an egress, eventually. I have been swallowed, just a bit, by the dark, and the culpability for my consumption is mine.

I walked blithely into the monster's maw, and though I have escaped total destruction, I have always now a park of that darkness with me. And I am not a hero. And I walk afraid where once I walked proud.