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strange and strangerTheir paths first crossed in the waiting room to the principals office, one anticipating reward and the other punishment.
Despite a few variations, they were there at the hands of the same culprit: a simple sequence of words threaded by pen onto a sheet of notebook paper. The same brand, actually.
He spoke first, voicing his discomfortas well as the roomstoward her presence. Her painfully straight posture and crystalline eyes were unfit for this styrofoam prison whose sole purpose was to make one regurgitate his wrongdoings before the principal even knew what he looked like. But what bothered him most, though he did not know why, was that she was unfit for him.
So why are you here?
She turned to face him, the surprise hed been expecting absent from her face. Its this essay I wrote. My teacher wants to submit it in some contest. One of the
empty spillingscharcoal master,
you spin such exuberant tales,
yet so half-hearted is your voice
which colors them.
you must cease this listless dreaming.
red may seem cunning, but
in the case of fire,
it is far less passionate than blue.
a lieso there's this boy at my school. i'm just going to write about him without thinking, because if i were to think, i'd make him prettier than he is.
(there's nothing noble about a tall truth.)
he's not the kind of boy you'd continue to pay attention to after first glance. he's also not the type of boy who thinks no one pays attention to him when really everyone does (there are boys who are like that, and, don't get me wrong, i've got nothing against them).
instead, he's the kid with the nervous features that put the curiosity of one's eyes to shame. you musn't misinterpret. he is not a cute nervous. he is a deliberate nervous; a con
don't tell me if i'm dyingHe had clover eyes. Luck. Was his middle name. Maybe. Thats what he told everyone. But then again he was known to tell people he was good at wrestling because he was abused by his father and good at science because aliens from Jupiter lived in his closet. That was him. A body of lies everyone wished could be bent into truth.
She had ballerina fingers. How could she have had ballerina fingers? It was because they danced across keys like they were steps to a different world and she had no eyes for the musicstupid music that threw boundaries into existence.
She didnt have time for life. No time. Always ticking. That clock with only the second hand (because hours arent important in timelessness). Just seconds. And every second would be a new dream that her ballerina fingers caught and danced with for a while
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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