The Chosen One

The old man, who had lived too many long years to see the prophecy fulfilled, reached his hand out to her, palm wrinkled and waiting. “You are the chosen one,” he informed her, “and the fate of the world rests in your hands.” Those words hung between them; a crescendo of anticipation vibrated in the silence–like … More The Chosen One

Back to School Again

So I went ahead and decided to drop loot on a Creative Writing class at the local community college. I figure, maybe some education might be nice? Considering my undergrad was in forensic science and I spent more time in a lab than anything. I think it’s interesting how the arts seem to tilt towards … More Back to School Again

Telemarketers

The phone is ringing and she answers “Hello?” The pre-recorded voice congratulating her on her free cruise to the Bahamas is the first voice she’s heard since the end of the world. She hangs up mid-sentence.

Revolution

Everything is falling apart. That’s what they’re saying, as corporations break apart and billionaires find their vaults have been emptied – as priests and preachers are pulled from their pulpits for demanding the deportation of God (He was wearing a face they didn’t recognize) – as the police are disbanded by children wearing flowers in their … More Revolution

Cream, Two Sugars

She has held corporations in the palm of her hand and refused dinner with the most powerful of men. They end up across the conference table, hands shaking as they attempt to sip their coffee, as strong and black as they thought themselves to be. She prefers hers laced with sugar and cream, every bit … More Cream, Two Sugars

Salem

Why does creativity only spark when it’s the middle of the night and I’m alone? I set up sections during my day, small spots of quiet where I can curl up in front of my computer and let these words pour forth. But, I sit here and am distracted as a cat, my attention flicking back … More Salem

Atrophy

It’s been a month. More than a month, actually. What’s terrifying is that, when I forget to write, it’s like a flower wilting. It’s not just forgotten; it becomes desiccated from disuse. It curls up and shrivels and it becomes that much harder to begin again. Like a paralyzed limb succumbing to muscular atrophy. I … More Atrophy