web analytics

Sandra Jean-Pierre | Digital Artist & Writer of Words.

Category: Writing

Disabled Chronicles, No.236

Breach Healthy summer brush choked the path in front of me. I stopped a moment, unsure if the walk ahead would be possible. As if I hadn’t taken this stroll a hundred different times already. Silly. Of course it would be possible. I pressed ahead and quickly felt something out of place. The air felt closer, the space surrounding me narrower. I slowed again and tried to find the mystery. I looked to my right and noted how the water,

Disabled Chronicles, No.68643

My body has been moved and manipulated by many pairs and sets of gloved hands over the last few months. New hands, unsure hands, cold ones, warm ones. Hands with chipped Tiffany blue polish blurred through the vinyl of the gloves, some with watches, most with no jewelry at all. I generally just lay there, waiting for them to decide on where and how much they should move or adjust or bend my arms and legs and torso, even after

Fight ME!

I was one of those kids who was sure that No ONE was the boss of me; not even my Momma. I remember the very first time I was ever angry with her, being five or six years old and how I glowered at her as she tied my dark brown orthopedic shoes and tried to push me to do more physical therapy when I just didn’t want to. As she lifted her head after tying my shoes, she was

Celiac Chronicles, No.7465

That one time you ask your aide to make you multiple servings of the new Cream Of Rice cereal you found and that was purchased along side Bethany’s Cream Of Wheat… And though they were bagged together but in separate containers, your aide managed to grab the wrong box (and you didn’t even think to triple check to ensure she grabbed the correct one) and proceeded to make a whole 12 mini containers worth of the Cream Of Death so

Carry Her With Me

  I was cleaning out my purse and forgot that I carry Her with me. Her last rosary and two coins from our trip to France when I was a teenager. It surprised me to find these, even though I was the one who put them where they were. Opening the thinning Asian-style purse, the rosary came out in pieces. I don’t remember if it had always been like this or if the links gave way from prayers lost and

""