I like writing bad stories.
La vie en rose
One thing I've come to realize is that I don't need anyone to believe in my dream. The only person that needs to believe in my dream is the most important, myself.
Follow the White Rabbit
“The world will come to an end in two years this day,” whispered the man. His words almost inaudible, yet the only sound that penetrated the gray open space. He was standing underneath a streetlight that was suspended in the middle of nowhere. His presence was merely a shadow, features unidentifiable except for his height which was around six feet and his eyes. His irises were a piercing shade of vibrant sapphire. After he relayed his message, he turned around and began walking towards a forest of thick trees that spawned up behind him. As he did so his body began morph, distorting with every movement as he suddenly transformed into a small white rabbit. The rabbit paused underneath its spotlight before staring back as if waiting for it to be followed. It took off as the sound of loud booms resonated through the atmosphere, ripping everything apart.
Breathing Through Water
Tufts of cotton-like seeds blew through the warm June air. The wispy white parachute forms that fell from the cottonwood trees in the neighborhood resembled a springtime snow. It gathered atop the unmanicured lawns on the block like a blanket, weaving in between blades of overgrown grasses and weeds.
This one is for the Loners
You are the black girl that sits alone during lunch time every day. You don't speak much, and not at all if you're not addressed. You don't know where you fit in, and don't know how you got to that point. Maybe it was easier that way, because it didn't feel like you were trying so hard to be someone you weren't. Along the way you lost yourself. Socially awkward and perplexed with overwhelming anxiety. You sit outside lone at lunch scribbling song lyrics and drawings in your Moleskine sketchbook hoping that time will pass by faster. You silently hope that your life will get better because at that moment, everything is shrouded in hopelessness. In your eyes is sadness, brown orbs begging for help. No one looks your way, so you translate the desperation in your drawing and written words. Your art and writing speak for you
The Window Bird Chronicles
I don't remember exactly when the outer window to my bathroom was broken, but I do remember the day. The North Carolina outer banks had been under a hurricane warning (possibly Hurricane Arthur), and strong winds and rain pounded the Sandhills. I had braved walking outside after hearing a loud noise that morning and saw that a tree behind our house had slumped over. There luckily wasn't any damage except for the broken window, and since it was an outer portion and there was still a screen and another glass portion we could put up, we didn't think much about it. Not too long after, there was a lot of rustling in the window area in the mornings. A bird had begun building a nest neatly in the corner of the small rectangular window area.
How to Save a Life
Violet’s Apothecary was a quaint tearoom by day where patrons frequented elaborate afternoon teas. By night, for three days a week, it transformed into a posh restaurant that was always booked. Teacups were switched to wine or cocktail glasses, three-tiered dessert stands were replaced with dinner plates with artfully placed entrées. Decanters that housed wine took the place of teapots, and the usual sugar pots and cutlery were tucked away.
The Time is Now
Morning always conjured up dread for Terre. It was the moment where she paused in front of the large window in her kitchen that overlooked the skyline of Viridian. The spread of vivid hues across the sky would always manage to assuage her somber mood. But that morning the colors were muted grays reflecting against the throng of skyscrapers as the sun loomed behind thick blossoming clouds.