Luckyonly: Busy artist very creative guy super funny!

I have a wild imagination and these are the types of stories I write I also write poetry and illustrate books. I am a lot of fun. Take the time to read the story and see if you like what you hear. I love to write



Sanch'o's eyes slowly opened around sun up that day just like every morning since his mother had died. He was just four years old and had been without his mother for almost 2 years, he barely remembered her face, he didn't have any pictures left to remind him what she looked like. Every now and then one of the den mothers would sing something or even smell a certain way and memories would come flooding back to him.
He lived with his mother for two years before she died, they spoke Spanish, and even though he spoke English now he still thought and dreamed mostly in his native tongue.
He had a younger brother named Jesus who was also taken by the sickness before he was even one year old. He had never met his father, that he could remember anyways. He was deported right after his little brother was conceived and later died trying to come back to the USA from Tijuana when a poorly dug tunnel under the Rio Grande near Calexico collapsed, killing him and 12 others.
Sancho was a legal US citizen having been born in the States in the city of Henderson Las Vegas's lesser-known next door neighbor.
He was delivered at Saint Rosa de Lima Hospital on the corner of Lake Mead and Boulder Highway.
His mother Maria worked as a waitress at the Emerald Island Casino. She was a practical strong woman who kept working right up to the last 30 minutes of her pregnancy.
Halfway through her swing shift at the casino's small Diner, she set her order pad down and walked out without a word. She then walked the three blocks to the hospital and delivered her beautiful son Sancho with no complications 25 minutes later.
Less than Forty-Eight Hours later she left the hospital carrying her black haired little boy and walked both of them back to their a little one-bedroom apartment right behind the Joker's Wild casino on the edge of a particularly nasty little neighborhood named Pittman.
Even before the plague separated the wheat from the chaff on a global level, Pittman was full of a dangerous mixture of white, black, Latino, Filipino and Armenian criminals who all took pride in the quality of their home-cooked meth and who could steal a scooter the fastest.
Every house was a trap house. You couldn't Trust anybody and even the cops didn't really care who killed who. Every Resident was a problem or nuisance in some way, if they died by murder they were more than likely guilty of something.
Part two
It was on the edge of this neighborhood where I spent the first two formative years of my life.
One of my first real memories was of my little brother crying. I remember him crying for days , and my mother taking both him and me over to the crowded Saint Rosa emergency room. The doctors there just shook their heads at the sight of my sick little brother and sent us home. I remember the hundreds of people standing outside in the already uncomfortably hot April sunshine.
Everyone there looked sick and scared I just wanted to go home and play with my Toy Story dolls. I loved Woody and Jessie and bullseye. I was learning the Spanish words for things from my mother and the English words from the Disney Channel and the Cartoon Network before they shut all of the broadcasts down except for the Emergency Services message.
I remember my brother crying still as we walked home in the hot sun, my mother carrying him with one arm and leading me along side her down Boulder Highway.
My tiny hand grasped her finger and thumb. Her soft Mother's Hands felt hot, hotter than even the 90° Sun that day and her forced smiles coupled with the dark circles that had taken up permanent residence under her eyes reminded me of what our upstairs neighbor had looked like before she quit coming outside.
My tiny brother was quiet for the first time in days that night.
The next morning my mother wrapped him up in the little blue blanket he had come home from the hospital in after his birth.
She gently placed his abnormally still body in a styrofoam cooler along with a rosary his rattle and his binky.
She sobbed, she prayed then slowly put the top on the styrofoam cooler.
She picked up a roll of packing tape then wound it round and round sealing my little brothers makeshift coffin.
the sound of packing tape being ripped off of a roll still sends chills down my spine. After she sealed up the cooler she grabbed my tiny hand with her soft warm mother's hand and the cooler with the other and we walked to the park behind our house to bury my little brother.
She sobbed and cried over and over..."mijo mijo! Jesus mi amor. Amore eterno!" My little boy my little boy! Jesus, eternal love.
incoherent and sobbing, I cried too. I was afraid and sad and I missed my little brother.
Too young yet to understand fully the nature and the scope of what was happening around me, I knew instinctively that it was something very bad.

I am looking for somebody who is open-minded and fun and has a good sense of humor. I don't really have any Hang-Ups I'm really not that off the beaten path as far as my likes and dislikes. I think it's all about the kiss, if you can't feel any chemistry when you kiss somebody you might as well move on down the road. Just a theory of mine

painting writing designing and building things helping people