Sometimes we don’t write books, they write us.

I was swept into a world of writing by a life of trauma, and when I could find no other voice powerful enough—I wrote:

From the time that I was a mere three and a half years old and was swept into a fairy tale, until my mid-teens when I was dragged into a living nightmare, the circumstances of my life were nothing like that of most people that I knew. There was an intensity and speed contained within my personal history that fast forwarded me and catapulted me into a new domain, breaking down the walls of my natural inertia, and crashing forward like a whirlwind- with me clinging to it for dear life with things spinning out of control on more than a few occasions”

 From Out of the Maelstrom by Sara Niles


He was dead, alright. The sight of death is an ugly and fearsome thing, I thought, as I absorbed the tragic sight in front of me. It was a man, ‘The man’ , was lying in the road with blackish- red blood pooled around his head, and as he lay face down with his feet in his own yard, while his head and shoulders were planted in the street, he gave the appearance of  a killed animal felled in its tracks by a hunter”

“The program was at its peak at that time and so was the violence in our community. Small towns live or die, based on its resources, but if the town is especially poor and resources are especially limited, people will find a way, whether it is the right way or wrong way. In our little town the wrong way was chosen a lot, the area was poverty stricken and rife with drugs, so it was not surprising that the local entrepreneurs chose drug dealing as their profession-they grew it, made it, cooked it, sold it, ran it, stole it. The violence came next, stabbings, shootings, rapes and whatever it took to elevate the status quo in a drug culture”




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