Here it is, raw and ugly. I wrote this over a year ago for creative writing 35b (and it's easy to tell I skipped 35a). I'd like to restructure, shorten, and add depth to it. Half of me thinks I should leave it alone.

Shifting from steppingstone to steppingstone in black Chucks, he and his borrowed equipment made way to a site in the garden most ( Read more... )

Minds are attics brimming ( Read more... )

Jones Bentley wrote this, Penny. He was my friend, a very good friend. He was a New Yorker, and he loved singing, too. We helped each other out for years. He had my back. I had his. Simple. He was killed, Penny, for no reason whatsoever. He asked me to make this into a song and I told him I would. He taught it to me while my dirty hands cradled his ( Read more... )

"What?" my aunt Susan says, looking at me from over her shoulder. "We should've got our food by now. We're number sixty-six, right?"

"I think so," I reply, scanning the restaurant. "We're-"

Seventeen-year-old eyes meet mine. Scenes of love and happiness with this almost familiar girl who just entered superimpose over my future. I see our bodies ( Read more... )

"You're not superior to androids or robots in any way," Jacob says, squinting at me ( Read more... )