This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.
To me, a thirteen-year-old Black girl, halted by Southern life, deprived of anything digital bespoke, I saw the MakerBot as a manifestation of freedom. It was a long-held breath, released at last, drawn in again cool and clean and tickled with that peculiar smell of ABS filament. Here we are, I thought, a promise so forsaken it had near become a lie was unexpectedly kept. Granted like a wish. Freedom.
There was a time in evening, before the night stirred up and made its own song, when the radio played and mother danced. Every feeling put into her that day was present like a scarf hung on her body. She turned and turned and never without purpose, but never the same way twice. I could close my eyes and see her again and wonder, what if a horn played? Not any horn, but a horn of my exact choosing. A horn as specific to me as my frown or laugh. That sits on the table by the gray potbelly stove like somebody kicked in the side of a tin geranium planter. She would probably stop dancing and laugh herself sick.
Mothers, Danzig warned you in general terms about his nefarious intentions. Now find out what he specifically intends.
Makes baby look too appetizing. Also I have my thigh stuck in one and I can't get it off. It's so tight around the skin I can't cut it without risking injury. IT'S A LONG STORY AND IT'S NONE OF YOUR BEESWAX.
The darkest, most controversial game since Luigi's Mansion.
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Famous authors of renown and infamy find new inspiration when unexpected sponsors pay them to write. Not even death can stop them!