My hands are in my lap and I’m trying not to bite my nails. What do you do during the waiting period while someone else is reading a piece of your story for the first time? I always feel the urge to bake muffins and sing loudly at the top of my voice and pretend it’s not happening. I watch his eyes move across the screen, flicking fast back and ( Read more... )

Yes, friends. It's that time again. Write write write!

He remembered flying up. The sun had been razor bright on his constructed wings, the rays warm on his back. His eyes were closed, his face triumphant; he wasn't watching where he was heading, but instead tilting a few degrees there, a small adjustment here. His father had been behind him, whooping with delight, and, hearing him, the boy surged ( Read more... )

Halfway down the block I realized that I was still wearing his shoes. They flapped around my feet like a pair of dying fish and I wanted a frying pan to lay them into, so I could hear them sizzle ( Read more... )

Every day, I get to the cupcake shop forty five minutes before we officially open to assist with the daily windup to the actual opening. It's a race to put out the new cupcakes and brew the four types of coffee and organize the breakfast pastries on plates and pop those on top of the counter. Usually, I have a manager I love, who we'll call T. T is ( Read more... )

There's a place on LJ that's my home away from home, my empty canvas whereupon I can splash my life with all its hideous and beautiful colors. The inhabitants of this place never mind; when I come to them crying, they lend me sympathy and understanding, and when I want to celebrate, they dance with me wildly. This place is called 2_lines ( Read more... )

This isn't my usual LJI fare, but it's fiction and it's sort of odd, so I figured I'd get feedback on it from you lovely people ( Read more... )

"Mrow. Mrow. Mroooow ( Read more... )

"...A stolen key from an old hotel room door" is a line in a Chely Wright song. I'm in love with that song, but more importantly, I get this lyric. I steal keys from hotel rooms. Well, okay. I don't steal them. They just end up in my pockets or bag or purse, and suddenly I'm on the plane going home, and oops! It's too late now ( Read more... )

“Hey sunshine, how’re you doing?” The IM box pops up at me. Dad. I smile. “Hi,” I type. “I’m…” I pause. How am I doing? What can I tell him? I rifle through a series of ideas, each less likely to make him happy than the last ( Read more... )