The purpose of fiction is to tell a story. The following pieces are created and written out of imagination, simulating an experience that never happened but could.
Walking down the narrow and dimly lit aisle, I saw her. Seat 8F. The fearful girl hid her face under the faded blue hat that was tilted low enough to show only the red puffiness under her eyes, and the stream of tears that traveled down her neck. I passed her, recognizing her sweet cotton-candy-like […]
“Everyone look! Lily Matthews is talking to her imaginary friend again! Hey, hey, hey Lily! Is your imaginary friend gonna swing with you!” Laughter erupted form the far too immature fifth grade class. “She’s not my imaginary friend!” whimpered the little girl as she sat on the swing-set next to an empty, rocking swing. “Her
He stumbled into my arms with a look in his eyes that told me he saw me, but didn’t know who I was. “Watzchout punk,” Eric mumbled, as if trying to remember which letters followed the previous to make a coherent sentence. “Alright buddy, time to get you home,” I responded out of classic habit.
I have one question, and one question only. How the hell do I get down? Six thousand, one hundred, and twenty one tally marks stare at me in the face as one more is chalked up for the day. Here, I remain. Here, I wait. With the same eighteen story high view and the same
