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  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    I believed the sky was made of glass—a thin, transparent sheet of material so fragile, it was possible for one’s dreams to break through. Yet, with no record of a shattered sky, I also had vehement theories that no one was dreaming. And I was the first....
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    It was not the sun that warmed my world; or the clouds that blocked my soul. It was not the evil glares that broke me down to nothing; or the feelings of hate that made me weak. It was not the earth’s unwelcoming gates that left me locked outside of this world; for it was not another’s fault th...
  • Fiction > All Fiction
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    I've heard it said that writer's never go to heaven. (And apparently, the really bad ass one's go to hell before they even die.) And whoever made such a straight forward remark, I am (and undoubtedly) certain that such a saying is true. ]Though I am the first to admit my disabil...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    Preface Written among their faces thrived a devious expression, an expression for which stood out by its own. Within their ostentatiously beautiful eyes, screamed a remark of horror, my glance staring contently into the soul of a monster. Puzzling, it may seem, for one to be so deeply captivated...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    When concluding upon the end of twilight, It is one song that I am left to sing And be one vocalist, I inhale the dusk New England wonders freeing my soul of mourning With the physique of its nature, mountain so tall I gasp of all inception of reality, And standing among the dirt pathway to ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    As I watch the sun stain upon The grassy meadows of red kisses It is not the dawn that sparks the darkness, Or the twilight that recalls a witness. Based upon my very account I sing the lyrics of my own demise, The emptiness that hollows throughout me Is the emptiness that sparkles the sta...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    From every vulnerable streak painted within me, I preach among despair, Emptied of soul and drained of wisdom, Grieving for the weakest of air. Placed before a blank page, I fret not knowing of my talent to write, Each concoction of literary downpour shall be nothing, Bland among the poison...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Perhaps my dreams will forever be humble, Drained of all emotion forever grown. Within my peaks of literary text, I grieve among all I've lost, Talent quite broken and shallow lines spoken, There is nothing left to resemble Frost. Their words so strong and confiding, Engraving the in...

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