Write-What-You-Know

Her pale white skin contrasted deeply with her long, jet black, straight hair. It was like seeing a black cat placed in pure white snow. Although the extreme contrast was hard not to notice, it was not what brought my attention to this beautiful creature. It was her bright silver eyes that dragged me in, demanding my full attention with a hold so tight it was hard to look away from their gaze. As I stared at her from across the room I saw her begin to smile and reach out her tiny hand towards me. She started to squirm in her father's arms until he finally brought her to me. She radiated a heat so strong that it was almos

The slightest touch of the sun's enigma sparking through the darkness, like a force fighting to be free. It tries to brighten. Tearing away at the claws of evil that hold it back it begins to struggle, only cringing when it seems all hope is lost.  Covered by the darkness the sun hides away, afraid of the onslaught of the abyss that draws near.  Stealing all the purity and freedom, it diminishes the pulsing radiance to a spark that is slowly crushed.  Bleeding out all the light until it is just a speck the darkness pushes down on the light until it is no more. Slowly it savours this victory. This evil. It took my sister.

I sit in the corner of my closet staring at the empty space ahead of me, my cheeks stained with the product of his rejection. My body is weak and heavy, all my emotions drained from within. The air I sit in engulfs me in it's dark hot embrace. Sweat drips slowly down my forehead, sticking close to my pale skin creating a gloss and mixing with the tears that continue to fall soundlessly. There is no noise for my ears to focus on to help me escape this gaping hole in my world. A sudden burst of light consumes me, blinding my eyes closed so that I might protect myself from whatever may be coming at me. My body curls into itself in a defense tha

"I'm lost." A young man with dark hair dripped on the marble floor of the lobby, grime prints from his wet boots leading him to the gold edged marble reception desk where the woman behind the counter looked up slowly, eyeing his equally wet and sub-par clothing for his current location. "That is an understatement." The receptionist continued typing on her computer. He raised an eyebrow and shifted his left shoulder with a messenger bag. "Can you help me?"  He tried to hide the twinge of impatience in his voice. The receptionist sighed, rested her hands in her lap, and looked at the digital clock hidden below the lip of the desk. "I can,"

Sometimes I look up and realize I forgot what I'm supposed to do, where I'm supposed to go. I forget why I'm holding something, and put it down. Then I wonder why the world around me looks so small, am I shrinking? Sometimes I feel as though I'm getting left behind, but then I just need to breathe and I am at average pace. Then the thoughts roll back in and I remember what I'm supposed to do. I know I will never be one of the elite, one of the best. So where am I?

Drop dead. Why should I change when the change would hurt me. I'm scared of what you've become. You have turned into a green-eyed monster, a crazed machine. As I shrink away, you grow stronger. When I rise up, you push me back down. I have no defense, but you, you're all offense. I can longer fight in this war, but remember, dictators, harsh rulers in our history, usually end up dead.

The stage curtains fluttered red, then lavender on their frame in a shifting inner wind. Reed paused, aware that his bare feet were touching wood and glass on the stage. Hundreds of glass test tubes flicked see-through silicone wings, creeping along the floor, curtains, and hovering in the air. He could see well in the darkness of the building through a chandelier of multifaceted points of color, disguised as pebbles on the worn wood floor.  He hadn't been to this place in a very long time; heart racing, tongue thick and dry in his suddenly parched throat, the adrenaline placing pinpricks of rushed sensations under his fingernails. Reed

I always get nervous on the train. My chin comes to rest against my palm, lips to my fingers, as my tired, watery eyes scan the dirty window shielding the world passing by much too slowly for my taste. I sigh. The Rock Island District Metra is one of my least favorite rails, especially during rush hours. Too many people, all staring at me. My left leg begins bouncing.  Its not like I have any reason to be nervous, I just feel ridiculous, especially with cash in my bag. Tips from the weekend. I don't want to leave them at home, and if I wanna muster up the effort to walk a few extra blocks, I can go to the bank. The train feels like its