He smiled a second after the rest of the group, laughed a second longer. He found comfort in walking, even though his mother always told him the bus would be faster. He never stepped in perfect rhythm; he liked the control he felt in the changes of the tempo in the pounding of his feet upon the pavement.

He smiled a second after the rest of the group, laughed a second longer. He found comfort in walking, even though his mother always told him the bus would be faster. He never stepped in perfect rhythm; he liked the control he felt in the changes of the tempo in the pounding of his feet upon the pavement.

He smiled a second after the rest of the group, laughed a second longer. He found comfort in walking, even though his mother always told him the bus would be faster. He never stepped in perfect rhythm; he liked the control he felt in the changes of the tempo in the pounding of his feet upon the pavement.

Beginning disengaged, the young author wrote her words without a story, forming words without an end. Where did she end up? On yet another and another website sharing her words.

His eyes glimmered in the sunlight, Standing in the woods the green stood out making his eyes the most stunning feature on his face. He walked around touching the leaves.

His eyes glimmered in the sunlight, Standing in the woods the green stood out making his eyes the most stunning feature on his face. He walked around touching the leaves.

She tied her hair in a messy half-pony, penned important notes and senseless doodles alike on her hand, laced her converse up the wrong way, and always painted her nails an electric blue, never letting them chip. It was her seemingly ambivalent attitude toward her appearance, exemplified in the former tendencies of hers, that made her obsession with perfect, strikingly blue nails so bizarre. Yet nearly every night, she could be found sitting on the edge of the bathtub, touching...

She looked up into his eyes for the first time and knew she was home. He smiled, and it was so easy to smile back but it was clear that they were opposites. They argued as the others enjoyed their romances, and she didn't even mind losing for once, because he was kind and maybe she wanted him to be happy around her. As he walked her home his rough-smooth hands enveloped hers, shielding from the rain. This was the...

He straightened his tie, fingered his cuffs, cocked his head and gave a liar's smile.  

She packed up her belongings: her Mildliners, her clothes. She bundled up our sticky notes- passed in secret between classes to one another- carefully as if each was a threateningly fragile antique that belonged to a museum. She hugged a regretful goodbye and forced herself to be swept up and away to a country 8525km across the Pacific Ocean; away from me.

untrimmed red hair cascading over sunburned shoulders
a sharp knife tucked into a worn leather boot
two pictures of a pair of teen-aged siblings 


and the strongly underlying shadows of sadness and anger.

untrimmed red hair cascading over sunburned shoulders
a sharp knife tucked into a worn leather boot
two pictures of a pair of teen-aged siblings 


and the underlying feelings of sadness and anger.

She wakes up early. When the two moons are still in the sky. She doesn't like the sun to wait for her.

          She puts on her armor and train. She takes off her armor and trains more.

                       She watches the scenery for peace of mind. It's the only time she has to herself. The madness won't bother her. 
                                                
         ...

The sound of printers, and the clacking of keyboards drove him insane. He couldn't take it anymore,with his destiny in his hands, got up setting his sight for an adventure.

He was full of self-doubt, he didn't believe that he could do it, he was about to give up on everything he aspired to.
However, on that night, he started a revolution.

The hair on his chin lay like dying weeds, though not for lack of trying, and he rubbed his palm across it as he slumped in the dying light and waited.

He hated light wash wood, stockpiled lasagne in his freezer. He was a horrible typer and had coffee stains on his table. 

    She packed her bags, quietly. She left in the dead of night, never the one for dramatic exits. I can't say I was surprised.  Her hair ribbon is on the dresser. She always leaves something, for next time. It isn't saying goodbye, not really, but it's comforting all the same. It means the pattern will continue.  Loving, leaving, self destructing, self medicating, and coming back again. Cruel, but always the same-it means she will come back to me...

Quite simply, she was a girl with tempests in her eyes and fire in her heart, and a sweet kind of darkness she chronically denied. 

    She asked the promising ones whether or not they would like to see her dragons, nodded quietly when they laughed, never told anyone her age and took the screens out of her windows, just in case.

    He enjoys old things: books with rusted covers and finger-stained pages, a typewriter that smells of dust and archives. Sometimes, he listens to the star’s conversations, and he is not afraid of death, in fact, he is one of the few who remembers.

    It...

She asked the promising ones, whether or not they would like to see her dragons, nodded quietly when they laughed, never told anyone her age and took the screens out of her windows, just in case.

He enjoys old things, books with rusted covers and finger-stained pages, a hollowed out typewriter that he keeps flowers in. Sometimes he listens in on the star’s conversations, and he is not afraid of death, in fact he is one of the few who...

She looked up into his eyes and knew she was home. He smiled, and it was easy and carefree, and they were opposites. They argued and she didn't even mind losing for once, because he was kind and maybe she wanted him to be happy around her. He walked her home and his rough-smooth hands enveloped hers, shielding from the rain. This was the start of the three weeks.

she knew the world like the world knew her,
tasted salt in the air tinged with sea,
rubbed dried skin off enough times that she didn't bother anymore,
lived long enough to know she wasn't what her parents wanted.

she knew the world like the world knew her,
tasted salt in the air tinged with sea,
rubbed dried skin off enough times that she didn't bother anymore,
lived loing enough to know she wasn't what her parents wanted.

She never says goodbye. It's this rule she has-saying goodbye makes it permanent. Saying goodbye is messy. And so we never said goodbye, her and I. She packed her bags, quietly. She left in the dead of night, never the one for dramatic exits. I can't say I was surprised. Left without saying goodbye;she always does. Her hair ribbon is on the dresser. She always leaves something, for next time. It isn't saying goodbye, not really, but it's comforting all...