United States of America

hey! name's MJ. um, don't really have much to say about myself, so I'll leave the rest of this blank. c:

Published Work

The Art of Specificity

the general idea

Nadia couldn't be crazy.

Nadia couldn't be crazy, because just because she hears colors.

Nadia couldn't be crazy because everyone was probably playing a joke on her, she couldn't be the only one who saw these colors, she couldn't handle the fact that she might actually be weird, be different.

Maya was a slut.

Maya was a slut because she fucked the football team after the homecoming game.

Maya was a slut because she was raped by members of the football team after homecoming, only the first person who responded to her cries for help was another member of the football team who recorded the scene and shared with the entire school. 

Maya was a slut because she didn't know how to report them, and had to deal with harassment for something she didn't even want.


Tyler wasn't gay.

Tyler wasn't gay because he totally didn't have a crush on Ethan and stare at his ass...

Novel Writing Competition 2017

100 Reasons to Live-Excerpt from Chapter One

Staying was definitely not an option. Her mother getting worked up over her ‘dangerous escapades’ was not what she need at the moment. She turned the knob slowly, and slipped through the smallest crack she could fit through. She speed-walked to the garage door, and typed up the entry code. 

Waiting for her, like it knew she was ready to hop out, was her bike. It gleamed under the flickering lightbulb, a monster of metal and immense power. She walked towards it, and in one smooth motion, hopped in, and started her motorcycle. She waited, debating on whether or not to put on her helmet. Deciding against it, she revved up the bike. She thanked the god of hindsight or whoever gave her the great idea to put mufflers on her bike. She sped out of the garage, and it automatically closed behind her.

Turning out of the driveway, she hit the main road, and aimed for the one place...

On the Last Day of the World


On the last day of the world,
I would gain the confidence to tell everyone what I really think of everything.

On the last day of the world,
I would throw consequences to the wind, do everything I had ever deemed impossible.

On the last day of the world,
I would confess to all who had ever held my heart, to those who I had loved so sweetly, in secret.

On the last day of the world,
I would forgive those who had wronged me, and ask for forgiveness for those who I have hurt.

On the last day of the world,
I would cry, for all that would never be done, and for those unborn, never getting the chance to experience the greatest oxymoron that is life, in all it's bittersweet glory.

On the last day, in the last few hours of our existence,
I would sit with friends reminscing about what once was,
and what could never be.


not having all the necessary parts. not full or finished
He recalls crying over a jigsaw puzzle as a kid when he was 6.

He couldn't find the last piece, and without it, the whole puzzle fell apart. It was childish-the whole ordeal-and easily resolved as the piece was just under the table.

There wasn't a table for him to look under now.
Going through the five stages of grief was tiring, and he had just about enough halfway through.
He told this much to his therapist, and the look he got in return made him regret bringing it up in the first place.

It seems like he was regretting a lot of things lately

“Don't worry, it's normal for this process to be draining. It may never even stop, but we can make it easier to deal with.” She said, pity shining in her eyes.

It was moments like this in which he...