Reluctant Writer. Teacher.
Hawking vocal contests for love letters.
Bone-Picked Dystopian Non-Fiction
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. Only when he slept, though. She studied the patterns of his breath to recognize the precise drop into REM. She knew when to crouch low across flagstone and when to freeze on the staccato interruption of his snoring. She felt the dark with fingertip intuition. Read, like brail, the correct pane to crack open.
A Composed Drowning
Before we begin. citation I’ve been bamboozled in a vocal media contest! Lured by fish captured in still, aquamarine image. White-fingered text taunting an invitation to wordsmith about aquariums. I slapped knee and hollered, “Hot damn! Finally, a contest fair for a science teacher.”
Letters of Exigence
Dear Mr. Paolini and Panel Judges, You ask what comes next, but why not ask who or what started it? Way to incite bias. My side of the story is due part in your vocal media contest. That’s why I’m entering. I’ve made clear the conflict and exhibited characters on various other platforms, but I can’t share any of that here because I am tasked–once again–to write about fucking dragons. It was even suggested I outline plot. Fine, here you are: