My thoughts tend to interrupt themselves. They crash and burn on the interstate that is my brain. Yep, every day feels like a multi-car wreck when tasks, reminders, and ideas constantly weave between my neurons. Sounds relatable? I'm not surprised. People barely have time to control their surroundings let alone their own minds. We all…
Follow my new YouTube channel and listen to my spoken word piece (find the preview on Instagram)! Please leave a comment or like below so that I know whether to continue this series.
Hi! My name is Emily O’Malley, and I’m Hannah’s roommate. I’d like to think that we lucked out; it isn’t every day that your roommate is also in your major! Since I didn’t plan on majoring in English before starting college, she and I didn’t coordinate it, but I love it. The most important thing…
I am standing on the bridge between chaos and tranquility, between crimson and greenery. I want to drink from that well of blue water, to graze beneath the hearts of rounded mountains. I want to stop and dance with the dandelions, to twirl around their seeds, to grow my own. I want to expel black…
As an experiment, I've written the start of a few short story ideas. If you're a writer, doing this really helps the creative juices flow for the projects that you're working on. I hope you enjoy them! The Musician: Carla, the cleaning lady on Clermont Street, has a son who is engaged to a…
When everything churns and sinks in reverse and the moon pulls back its tides with taut strings, the waves of the ocean crash and disperse in the tumult of my imaginings. But oh, let the continents shift and quake, and let the sun’s final rays brush the shore; his promising light is what my…
A delicate rose perched on a bush, her hand beneath her chin. Her sigh froze dew drops in the air; her patience was waning thin. For she was awaiting Autumn— he hadn’t visited in days— and he had promised that he’d bring her the sun's sweetest golden rays. But ‘twas Winter who had stolen Autumn…
There is a librarian who organizes fluttering memories. The birds fly in with ebony words smeared on their wings and they always soar with more questions than answers; her thoughts are dust-covered dancers twirling behind crumbling books locked in skyscraper-shelves; she told me to look for your book yesterday and I peeled it open and…
It is seven in the morning. The sun barely grazes her fingers across the horizon’s bare back, and she kisses his shoulder as if she is afraid to wake him. Soon, though, he will open his eyes and rumble the lakes and rivers to life; he will start tsunamis; he will open reservoirs. The sun…
Between the crevices in the syntax, the sentence, the subject, punctuation serves as an altar to ideas that cannot be connected by splinters or nails. Exclamation marks that yell also scream out tales. Gentle commas swirl into periods, like silk but even softer and create something that serves the crevices between the icons and…
2B or Not 2B 