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…
Even if the Winter Solstice doesn't arrive until December 21st, I can't shake the feeling that it's officially Winter. The Christmas trees are up, holiday music plays through every radio station imaginable, final exams approach our calendars quietly, and the time to write is far and spaced between. It is difficult to write at such…
2B or Not 2B 