86,400 Clicks around the Clock (Personal)

old vintage clock

It’s funny how I am sitting here now, these twenty-fours hours have passed, and my thoughts have led me on a trail through our university, to the appalachian mountains, across the united states and into the midwest and back around all over just to prove that my intentions of creating a routine path on campus had succeeded. Someone had noticed. I never knew it, but he had noticed me.

 

You see, I don’t really understand why this man had waited until the late summer after his college graduation to profess his liking for me. The pressure we currently feel, from this newfound flirtation that has broken the surface-level intimacy, would have felt easier to deal with if it had emanated in person, over a cup of coffee, as per desired. Yet things do not go how we intend. Now, I am sitting and pathetically waiting to receive an instagram direct message notification, from a man I do not officially know.

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Magnetism (Nonfiction)

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There he is. Every time he walks by it is like his cologne is his ghost, wisping fine, smoky trails that float into the air; am I the only one that can see? His aura has so much of a personality of its own that it seems like there are two of him. His appearance is exceedingly beautiful; his ironed dress shirts elegantly tuck into his dark wash jeans and fall to his brown, leather shoes. His skin looks as smooth as the cappuccinos he says he does not like. His body holds a face that brags of God’s craftiness; on top, his face is capped with dark, evenly cut hair, while a clean chin strap accentuates his jaw line. An espresso brown curls in the irises of his eyes, while the shape of the surrounding skin makes it seem like the eyes themselves are smiling. He walks with a shy, quirky confidence, and his lingering, espresso gaze follows behind his steps like wisping smoke, with his head turned back to watch what I hope is my figure. His figure—superbly more attractive than mine—is built with an established design of muscles that move breathlessly with the fibers in his clothing.

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Two-Day Romance (Personal)

There are times when I wonder why I am like this, why do I do this, why am I hurting from this, why am I becoming attached, why am I continually looking at you and wishing you could see my thoughts in my eyes, why can I not act straight-forwardly, why do butterflies seizure in my stomach when you catch my glance?

Two-day romances hurt like hell. It’s as if our silent attention towards each other screams that neither of our words proved worthy of remembering when we spilled our minds for three hours past midnight.

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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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