I go out into the noir sunrise, feeling the knife’s edge between summer and fall. The pavement leeches my warmth when it can’t find any in the sun. Something has gone cold and we can all feel it, even when we’re sweating. x I hunt for my joy, the kind that sprints at the sight …
You flee to the closet. You know the boxcutter is barely a weapon, but it’s all you have, so you hold it like a shield. Light peeks through the slits in the sliding door. It gives you the faintest view of the bedroom beyond. The beast approaches. Its dragging, heavy gait reaches your ears like …
Today I am gray— a storm without thunder— which is better than a drowned, faded blue, but I would not press to call it a full color. x I yearn to be something more. A hopeful, blinding azure, a sunlight gold— so warm you can feel it on your skin. Maybe a violet— wealthy with …
There is, of course, no reason to be afraid. There is no asteroid hurtling toward Earth, no supervolcano about to erupt under Yellowstone, and no man in the corner of your room, just out of sight. He isn’t watching you, a bloody gleam in his eyes. He isn’t sharp— with knives and claws and intent. …
When it rains, do you really feel it? Do you feel it rinsing your skin, washing away the blood and sweat? Do you feel it soothing your muscles, releasing the tension? Do you feel it bleach your bones, wiping away your impurities? Do you feel it fill your lungs, your first fresh breath in weeks? …
Author's Note: Now that I'm actually going for the English creative writing major, I have some assignments I can start sharing! So here's the first flash fiction on the site, as well. Let's see if you can figure out what the prompt was! To the New York City Chief of Police James Buchanan, This is …
Author's Note: Song is mostly unrelated, it's just the kind of bitterness that this poem reminds me of. Lincoln - How I Survived Bobby Mackey's Personal Hell Start by finding your passion, what you want to do, and bury it six feet deep. Take a knife and split yourself open, find every soft and honest …
Most ghosts I know are still breathing. I see them in the things I want to tell them, the time we could’ve had. They’re a shadow on my threshold, whispers in my ear. A simple fact of life, but it feels like being hollowed out. They don’t have to die for me to mourn. x …
it's a hard place to live. the briars digging into my skin, the rose-thorns curl like a noose around my neck. rocks fill my lungs, leeches crawl down my throat. there’s belladonna and lead in my blood, rot tearing through my stomach. I’m a moon, I’m a mouse, I’m coal, I’m a diamond. I’m an …
Here's an exercise I learned in class that I feel many writers could benefit from. It works essentially like this: Make a list of all the things that you love seeing in literature. Whether it is tropes, types of characters, locations, plot points, or anything like that, make a list at least with a couple …
