However, new years mean new opportunities, so I'm taking this one to revisit my writing and update you all with a little piece of myself :)
I've done a lot of academic writing this past semester so I haven't had the chance to satiate my creative side, which--in my opinion--has been screaming for some much-needed attention.
I took a few English and Education classes (yes, ladies and gents, I am now officially in the "home stretch" of my major/minor) and was able to do a little bit of creative writing so here they are: some short shorts for you to sample made for you by yours truly.
Tick, tock. He was perched on the edge of the couch like glasses on a nose, expectant. His gaze flung from her to the face of his platinum Rolex. Tick, tock. She arranged his uniform in the suitcase, folding it at the creases with care. His black Oxford drilled rapid drum taps into the hardwood. Tick, tock. “I have to be in Atlanta in three hours,” he muttered gruffly. “The plane leaves in forty-five minutes.” He’d ascribed a time table to their marriage: when he left for work, when he went to bed, how long he slept, how much longer he could take it, how much longer it would last. “You can’t do it by yourself dear,” she mused. With each swift, calculated move of her body, time swam by them—closer to expiration. There was a clock ticking all the time on a table by the door.
The skies were pastel blue and they matched his eyes. He was flaky, I could tell. That's what my Mom told me to watch out for--flaky people just like him. If I didn't care what anyone thought I think I might scream at the sight of this born-and-bred American before me. I'd come to Mexico to escape America; I was sick of the freedoms I was promised but never had. I was sick of the jeans and the tee shirts and the blocks of identical houses all in a row with a Chevy sleeping safe and sound in the garage. I was bored. I was looking for something exotic and thrilling, and here was this American ruining my paradise by playing football in the sand.
Stitch-by-stitch her thick, wrinkled fingers moved over the fabric. It was methodic, absent-minded work that she did every Sunday afternoon by the bay window in the front of the house. She liked to sit there with the sun on her face, exposing every crease and crinkle in her forehead. She could hear the children playing outside, the "toot toot" of an invisible train engine or the raucous of cowboys fighting indians on the manicured lawn. She didn't know who these children belonged to, but she secretly liked to think they were hers--ah, there were Charles and Patrick playing cars on the cement, with Abigail plucking dandelions from the grass with her pink ribbons all askew in her braids. Yes, they were hers, the ones who said "I love you" and couldn't sleep unless she sang them their favorite lullaby. Before they grew up and moved away, with children of their own to say "I love you" and "sing me a lullaby".
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