Aug 31
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Her fingertips drift over the surface of a fallen log—not quite touching, but almost feeling the rutted rhythm of its bark on her skin nonetheless. Her eyes trace the scene before her as if memorizing its depths. They linger on the scant strip of sky visible between the forking branches of a rusty brown maple. As she inhales, the musty scent of decaying wood fills her, and her mind flickers briefly with recognition. The forest smells like old growth and thriving life, an aroma she can almost recall from her long-ago past. Dawn lets the breath slip out in a sigh of contentment.

This place is beautiful and familiar, like the first chapter of a favorite book. She peruses its pages with reverence, giving each petal and fallen leaf its due. 
Jun 07
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Her skin is soil and stone and ancient fossil, blanketed in the greenery of meadows and valleys that form her island shape. Palm trees sprout in her cupped hands, rivers of fingers stretching away with muddy, rushing haste. Vegetation thrives as she lies against the ocean floor, seaweed hair floating languidly around her cragged head. A range of mountains curves across her spine. One, the tallest, sits like a majestic jewel inlaid at her chest, rising stolidly atop her beating heart as she stretches towards the horizon.

She is older than eons. She has seen travelers come and go, nothing more than blips in her eyes. She does not mind as they drink the water from her lakes and eat the fruits that sprout amidst her rich green flora; building unobtrusive huts, then shacks, then structures more complex. They often plant new trees, replenishing her surface with growth—as she provides for them, so they return the favor.
May 22
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Never Been to NYC

Ian’s daily commute clocked in at twenty-two minutes and forty-six seconds on a good day, with light traffic and fair visibility. If it was raining: twenty-six thirty-two. Snow could bring it up to as much as thirty. Whatever the weather, he knew exactly when to leave his neat apartment so he could make it to the office on time.

But as storms began to brew closer to home, and downsizing decisions loomed, his boss had neatly cut his commute down to zero minutes, zero seconds. He was making the return trip for the last time.
May 02
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Misc. Art

Feb 17
fiction 2 comments challenge: Lost
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    You’re not sure why you’re here. There has to be a reason, doesn’t there? People don’t just show up places, especially not sparse, quaint little studies with a single desk and tinted windows.

    You look around. It’s nice, you suppose, in a quiet sort of way. There’s a box on the desk, about the size of a bread loaf—was it there a moment ago? Thick oak wood with a polished sheen, silver latch that beckons to be opened. You obey, of course, flicking up the metal and lifting the lid.

    Nestled inside, amidst the crushed-velvet interior, your fingers brush up against another box. It looks to be identical, save for being a fraction of the size. You take it out, open it, and feel a sting of déjà vu as more polished wood comes into sight.
Feb 17
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The Edge of Nowhere

Colin’s jacket is dark, heavy, sturdy—although there’s barely a hint of a chill in the thick summer’s night air. Its many pockets are full, almost as jam-packed as the tattered suitcase that lays beside him on the dented metal bench. But despite his preparedness, his head echoes with the taunting notion that something has been forgotten, something left behind unnoticed in his rush to leave home that morning. Reaching into his jeans, he grabs the remains of a dry granola bar, half-eaten on a bus ride that seems ages ago.

Whatever it was he’d forgotten, it’s not snacks.

Munching away, Colin scruffs his boot against the grainy concrete as the music in his ears attempts to soothe his nervous, tapping fingers. The last bus has long since come and gone from this stop, the streetlamp to his left flickering tiredly against the sky. The moon, like his mind and his pockets, is full—it does much more to light the fields around him than its synthetic counterpart.
Feb 17
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A Sunny Day in Winter

Gloom lifts, fog dries
Revealing a blue that flares ‘cross the skies
Beams glint over ice and slip through the window
To light up my room with a buttery glow
Gold pools at my feet; like summer, so sweet
While the earth is still coated in snow.
Jul 29
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While choosing which photos to showcase at my photography camp, I decided to split them into four categories—Photos that included flowers, fences, windows, or photographers. Originally, these “themes” were slightly broader (nature, ‘barriers,’ buildings, and people), but I chose not to display four of the images I had printed out in order to keep the categories more contained. Many of my photos play with depth of field, blurring some areas of the scene while keeping others in focus. In the future, I’d like to play around with different shutter speeds, photographing things in motion. I enjoy photography because it allows me to capture unnoticed or unappreciated details in the world around me, from the unusual slant of a dock to a bee alighting on a flower.
Apr 24
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Of Stars and Streetlamps

The universe is upside down.
The lights of the city, so bright, so dazzling,
are below me as I float across the breeze.
The galaxy lies beneath, not overhead.
Above, the inky blackness reigns,
dripping down between the buildings,
running through the streets,
engulfing all but the brightest of lights.
Some of these lights twinkle, some stand still,
and some zoom past, hurrying off to nowhere,
like comets or shooting stars.
I make no wish.
I have nothing to wish for.
I’m in no hurry.
I have nowhere to be.
A speck of light
holds no office hours,
needs no days off,
has no strict schedule,
no schedule at all.
Unlike this city,
I am calm.
Unlike this city,
I am quiet.
All sounds are distant.
They echo within me,
yet leave no lasting effect.
I am free, floating on the breeze,
my thoughts mirroring its easy flow.
Mar 05
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Scratch That

There are days when I don’t feel like writing.
When every word I pick
Is wrong
Rings false

Falls flat.
When I want so badly to express something,
To communicate
Exactly what I’m feeling
The words inside my heart

The thoughts trapped inside my head,
But can’t.
There are days when it seems pointless to try.
When I know I’ll never be able to create anything
Of value
Of substance

That means anything at all.
I have a lot of these days.
Days when I can’t
Stir up emotions
Provoke deeper thinking

Create worlds
With just my words.
I can’t discuss
The meaning of the constellations,
The revelations of mankind,

The beauty of the setting sun,
Or even what’s inside my own mind.
My mind is numb
My heart is frozen

My soul is empty,
But my mind too full.
Too full of thoughts I can’t get out—