MummyWriter

To establish a setting, the year is 2013. The first of June. A Saturday, around 8 pm. The humid air folds itself around me like one would fold an origami bird (except not as crisp or as delicately.) I think of the way everything disappears into the blue light at twilight, no longer painted gold. I think of the majestic poplars, towering so high yet shuddering in the breeze and casting peculiar shadows across the foreign ground. I think how, in my writing, I would like to capture the dewy smell of moist leaves and the sound of woodpeckers drilling pitch black beaks into rotted trees. I romanticize it all. In truth, a mosquito struggles thro

To establish a setting, the year is 2013. The first of June. A Saturday, around 8 pm. The humid air folds itself around me like one would fold an origami bird (except not as crisp or as delicately.) I think of the way everything disappears into the blue light at twilight, no longer painted gold. I think of the majestic poplars, towering so high yet shuddering in the breeze and casting peculiar shadows across the foreign ground. I think how, in my writing, I would like to capture the dewy smell of moist leaves and the sound of woodpeckers drilling pitch black beaks into rotted trees. I romanticize it all. In truth, a mosquito struggles thro

The seconds pour through my fingers, The vintage story of my past, A moment that will never return, Reruns of silent movies, The quiet spectrum of black and white. Turning slowly away, The resonating beat of every year, A flashback to a time we knew before, A heartbeat in the hushed scene, The way our broken hands were put to rest. I wish for a fragmented melody, A resonating sentence of truth, The cherry blossoms in mid spring, The ancient branches of my thoughts, The inner workings of my glass forearm. People see my ghost, The girl on the outside, An entity of my desire, The swift promise that I am gone, A gear spiraling

Rory is reaching out his hand tentatively, as if the envelope might contain poison. In truth, it is a type of death, but not his. He slowly closes his long finger tips around it, brown eyes locked onto my every movement. Sadness, anger, grief, pity and an undertone of longing sculpt his face. "You're giving me your death wish?" "Yes." I say plainly. Rory and I are nearly complete strangers but at heart, I feel closer to him than anyone else. We are both reckless and wicked in our own ways but also strategic, intelligent, and mature beyond our years. Blood stains our pasts, and therefore we are connected. It flows through our veins and gives

A young woman named Aileen loved making art, and practiced Writing all day long to become the very best in all her town. But one day, she was completely stumped. She looked around her room, full of art pieces featuring mystical Sail Boats, sci-fi landscapes of a futuristic Paris, and a portrait of Alex Trimble that looked so real, you could start a conversation with it. But nothing inspired her. Had she really created everything there was to create? Depressed, she looked out her window, and made a wish on a nearby Island for inspiration to return to her. The next morning, she sprung out of bed, and used her skill in Writing to create the most