Columbia College Chicago, sophomore, undecided creative writing major. I didn't start taking writing seriously until college.
The doorbells jingle, a woman who looks to be about eight going on nine months pregnant waddles into X$team, a local mini-mart on the corner of North Lewis Drive. Her flip flops drag as she walks into the chip aisle to snag sour cream and onion Pringles. Next is the cold beverage aisle, where she contemplates every flavor of available juice.
This is how she found him. He laid his head to rest on that ugly futon that he failed to sell at three annual garage sales. He spent more nights on that futon than in bed with his wife, and not for the right reasons. Each morning he got off work he would bust through the door and let in a soft breeze that welcomed his smell of alcohol sweat. The aroma would dance throughout the living room and kitchen, his version of morning coffee and sizzling bacon.
Writing. The only way to write is to do it, yet you fall short on that end of the stick. I’ve noticed you haven’t been as passionate about the writing you’ve been forcing yourself to put together. You force feed writing prompts instead of taking your time to knead the dough that is your brain. I can tell you haven’t given much thought or at least given yourself the chance to brainstorm more than twice in the same week. Your eyes go blank as your intense stare treads off into the empty space in front of you. Sometimes if I catch you in a moment of silence, I can hear your breathing slow as you swipe through the internal voices bombarding your brain; you once compared your thoughts to blind Tinder dates that have absolutely no intention of starting the night off right.
Child in a Sex Store
Could you tell me how old you were when you touched yourself and felt ashamed? If you never felt ashamed you must be of the male race. Can you recall a time someone told you it’s okay to give yourself the pleasure you desire?