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Over the past year, I defeated a fear of other people, learned the value of clarity and brevity, fought writer's block, and developed pride in my words.

Now I am a writer with a love for onomatopoeias and an affinity for semicolons.

Message from Writer

This community has helped me get over a fear of showing people my writing, and an inability to take ownership and pride in what comes out of my mouth and fingertips.

I can't thank any of you enough for that.

I welcome any feedback or criticism that you have to offer. You're here because you at least found something of mine that sparked interest, so thank you.
I want to improve.


September 30, 2019

PROMPT: Solastalgia

    I didn't know water could run out. It was an omnipresence, dripping from the faucets, gushing from my shower head, going stale in a bottle in my backpack. It wasn't even a consideration in my nine-year-old mind until the drought warning was issued.
    It doesn't rain in Southern California. On the off occasion that it rains for a few hours, or at most a day, streets flood, businesses close, roads are redirected, simply because our cities aren't built for it. But when I realized we had gone all winter without having to take a different route to school, I knew something was wrong.
    Seven minute showers were heavily encouraged. You couldn't water your lawn unless it was after six. Water bills went up. Public pools were drained. All small things that were said to make a big difference. Clouds were light and transparent, never carrying rain or any sort of weight. Those that did simply blocked the sun; they never stayed for long, and often hurried away to rain on some other fortunate place. It killed me that the biggest body of water on the planet was ten blocks away, and we couldn't use any of it.
    The drought warnings went away a few months ago, but the effects remain. Lawns that hadn't been converted to water-saving desert-scapes are still brown and lifeless. Low-flushing toilets are almost a standard in restaurants. The pools were never refilled, and have now become makeshift skate parks for kids who are too young to remember any different. But life continues, gratefulness fades, and we all went back to driving under our palm trees and complaining at the occasional twelve-minute shower. 
    But at least now when I turn on the faucet, I know that it comes from somewhere.

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