Most of my writing is creative non-fiction, but occassionally, I indulge myself in the fictional world.
Anything I want
Even after you’ve washed them away, in the water that you take from the big tank Mom saves for cooking, there’s still that bitter, lemony taste on what is left.
I had been living with Jack for two years when I first noticed the door. It wasn’t a door the way I thought a door should be. There was no handlebar, no knob, no panel, no rail. It was a door because it led somewhere. Where it led to, I didn’t know.
It was the end of my second year and I was already sick of school. Sick, sick, sick, sick. A sophomore with the soul of a 5th year post-doc.
My posthumous collection of letters
I first focus on the emails that I sent to those important to me: my future self, my imaginary boyfriend, guys taking orders at the nearby Coupa, people I don’t really like but reckon would be famous one day so I’d better suck up to them.