Two Scarred

Dear Readers,

I hope all is well with you and that you are happy in your lives. It’s important. Kids here are starting back to school, as I am sure some of yours will be, as well.

Back view portrait of a female student walking

I had another story published today. I entered the story into a contest, which I didn’t win, but I am proud of my story anyway. The contest had a prompt, “scar.” I went ’round and ’round trying to figure out what to write about, but I settled on a young woman’s experience. The story is called Two Scarred and can be read here.

In my story, there are two people with scars. Scars are something we all have, even if not on our bodies. They are part of the human experience. There are scars put there intentionally, and unintentionally, by others and by ourselves. Some of the scars can be healed and some will always be there. That’s just how it is.

The first scar I remember getting was two scars, one on each knee. At 53 years old, I still have them, though they are faint with time. I was about five years old when I fell, running downhill on the street in front of my family’s home. I still remember that my mother had to get all the rocks out, which was unpleasant enough. But after my knees were all clean, Mom put mercurochrome on them, which stung like crazy! I hated that stuff. In my mind, I can still smell it’s medicinal scent and see the bright reddish-orange stain it left on my skin. (Moms used mercurochrome in the sixties and for decades earlier for any kind of owie their children got. It was eventually taken off the market because it contained mercury.) A couple bandaids later and I was back at it, running and playing like a crazed animal.

What about your scars? I would love to see you try your hand at a story about scars. Please comment below.

May you stay upright and not skin your knees. 🙂



6 thoughts on “Two Scarred

  1. I have a scar on the inside of my left leg, just below the knee. I was about 7-years-old when I received it. It was a hot summer, and my family had this crazy clown sprinkler that I loved. It was buried deep in the garage, and my mother told my father to go get it. I followed him into the garage–but he didn’t know I was there. When he went inside it found the frame of a Schwinn 10-speed he was proud of, my brother had dissembled it, which enraged my father. He picked up the frame and threw it. It collided with me, sending me to the ground. I remember the look of horror on his face, and going to the emergency room. Seven stitches done so poorly you can still count them to this day.

    Love this post! Thank you for sharing your memories!

    Liked by 1 person

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