A Cold Journey (Memoir)

Creative Writing 3 (Nonfiction)

[Words pulled to describe a traumatizing moment endured by yours truly]

2017-05-10 11.25.42 1I sat upon the cold, smooth, wooden dock. It did not move and neither did I. I leaned backwards to feel the damp texture against my palms. I could not feel splintering fibers; my skin gently rubbed in the direction of the grain. Therefore, I presumed the structure safe. There was no rocking, pushing me to infer that the wooden poles were stabbing deeply underneath the bottom of the pond muck to secure our supportive raft. I steadied my blurry vision to focus on my feet and watch the arch of my legs pull my bones upward to the fold in my knees and then into my hips. The hard pressure on my haunches from the wooden seat did not interrupt my comfort at all. I situated my position so my hand could linger towards yours with hopes that my lack of words would be warmed by your hand, caressing my emotional discomfort with your uncertain devotion.

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Parasitism (Fiction)

Creative Writing 2 

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His wife told him to do it. He didn’t want to. She wasn’t in the kitchen with him, he could fake it and she would never know if he had actually done it or not. Although, the proximity of the back door would be a dead give-away for an escape. He stood there in the kitchen staring blankly at the underneath of the bottom of the counters. It’s under there, he thought, She told me to do it. I’ve got to. But he was too kind hearted, with soft hands and perfectly rounded nails that exhibit his organized, polite nature. Never could he ever intentionally do anything harmful to anyone. Regardless, he stooped down to his knees on the repetitively square, white linoleum, pushing his smooth yet masculine hands into the floor to support himself. Peering underneath the bottom of the counter, he was eye to eyes with the eight-legged animal.

“I can’t do it, Rachel!” he yelled, “He didn’t do anything to me!”

“But you’re the man! I ain’t doing it! I ain’t even going to look at it!” she yelled back.

He continued to stare at the taunting, life-abundant spider that was cowering into the linoleum lining between the floor and the counter. The spider twitched its front legs upward towards his mandibles to clean himself. The man leaned onto his elbows and inched his hand forward; each of his fingers were uniform with each other, each representing his gentle and considerate nature. Every knuckle curved the with the same manner; each wrinkle displayed a color that was slightly darker than the skin folding around it. His fingers looked as if he had experienced so much and had absorbed so much trauma—the possible result of his marriage.

He hesitated.

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Creepy, Crawly, Cabbage Kids (Fiction)

Creative Writing 1

[ A humorous take on the birth of Vegetarians. ]

2017-02-14 07.00.15 1

You may have always wondered why certain people refuse to eat animal products. Let me tell you, it has nothing to do with their moral values or general preferences to not eat meat. Their vegetarianism is completely based upon how they were raised. It depends on how they were born, actually. Most humans are born from, well, humans. Vegetarians are born from plants, as the word insists; they might as well not be considered humans at all. I like to call this select species “cabbage kids.”

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