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Freelance Journalist & Writer

Hey there! My name is Michael Ramsburg. I'm an Appalachian writer from West Virginia. My work focuses mainly on the people and places in this region. I write narrative, long form and feature journalism for publications like the Pulitzer Prize-winning Charleston Gazette-Mail and the New York Times Upfront. My poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction have been published in Crossin(G)enres, the Creative Cafe, and Literati Magazine, among many others. My debut collection of creative nonfiction, tentatively titled Red Rover, is forthcoming.

12241398_10153671352826145_848806948969916751_n

Freelance Journalist & Writer

Hey there! My name is Michael Ramsburg. I'm an Appalachian writer from West Virginia. My work focuses mainly on the people and places in this region. I write narrative, long form and feature journalism for publications like the Pulitzer Prize-winning Charleston Gazette-Mail and the New York Times Upfront. My poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction have been published in Crossin(G)enres, the Creative Cafe, and Literati Magazine, among many others. My debut collection of creative nonfiction, tentatively titled Red Rover, is forthcoming.

Excerpt From My Essay: Marcum Terrace (Creative Nonfiction) 

Outside, neighbors sit on rusty lawn-chairs, bitter brews in wrinkled hands. They’ll tell each other tales. How the law caught up with the Adkins boy, after he went and stole the copper from out the cable man’s truck. How Jeffery just come back from St. Mary’s — triple bypass, too much fried food — but he’ll be OK. In the distance, HPD sirens — Which one they come to get today? Everybody knows the routine: stay close to your door, hang out your window, keep watch, but don’t seem like you’re staring. They line the suspects on broken concrete, hands in plastic ties behind their back, lost dreams on their blank faces, yes ma’am and no sir on their tongues. In a moment, they’ll be gone — a momentary pause, an abrupt semicolon in their fractured lives — off to the Regional, worn cots and three-solid-meals a day.

Excerpt From My Essay: Marcum Terrace (Creative Nonfiction) 

 

Outside, neighbors sit on rusty lawn-chairs, bitter brews in wrinkled hands. They’ll tell each other tales. How the law caught up with the Adkins boy, after he went and stole the copper from out the cable man’s truck. How Jeffery just come back from St. Mary’s — triple bypass, too much fried food — but he’ll be OK. In the distance, HPD sirens — Which one they come to get today? Everybody knows the routine: stay close to your door, hang out your window, keep watch, but don’t seem like you’re staring. They line the suspects on broken concrete, hands in plastic ties behind their back, lost dreams on their blank faces, yes ma’am and no sir on their tongues. In a moment, they’ll be gone — a momentary pause, an abrupt semicolon in their fractured lives — off to the Regional, worn cots and three-solid-meals a day.

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 © 2018 MICHAEL RAMSBURG

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 © 2018 MICHAEL RAMSBURG