The words roll themselves around in my mind, bouncing off the places where I’m pretty sure there’s supposed to be the pythagorean theorem and some emotions or something. But it just feels like empty metal walls, the kind that bouncy balls deflect off of with just a bunch of dull thuds, scattering everywhere so you inevitably lose one. Or six. The balls come to a rolling, stuttering stop as my middle finger—a deliberate choice, mind you—holds down the backspace key. When Dr. Kellerman asked for us to keep a journal this semester, I don’t think he meant for us to get that deep. Even if he did say to write wherever the muse takes us. Though, to be fair, I don’t think it’s necessarily my muse steering me toward Graham. Unless of course my muse has some kind of muse mental disorder and never freaking leaves me alone. Seriously, who’s ever heard of a clingy muse? I’ve never been that lucky. I honestly think I used up all my luck winning a rabbit at the county fair when I was six by throwing a ping pong ball into the properly colored floating glass bowl. I’m not kidding. I haven’t won a raffle or game of chance since. (more…)
Delilah Jane Houston, known locally as radio personality DJ Houston of Houston, We Have Some Problems, the ten o’clock radio show commonly referred to around campus as “wait, we have a radio station?”, was experiencing a moral dilemma.
So, I’ve been quiet on here as of late, ruining last year’s New Years resolution to write every day or once a week or whatever it was that I resolved to do in 2016. It wasn’t for lack of ideas–so get ready for a lot of rants inspired by the things I find around the internet–but I do have a good excuse. Or, an excuse, anyway.
A few friends and I have started writing a serial story: Thieves of Bakkaj. It’s a fantasy story, and a chapter is published each week, alternating between me and the other three writers. It’s got well-developed characters and the potential to become something really awesome. I’d love it if you’d check it out and give us a read!
We also have a Facebook page, and we’re trying to get the word out best we can.
So here’s to 2017 being the year I manage to keep up my blog for more than four months while working on the other things I’m writing, and here’s to 2017 being the year I become internet famous, because it certainly wasn’t 2016. But we’re getting there.
She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands. The strung lights cast long shadows as she curled her perfectly manicured toes against the rough wood. It was the first time in a long time her toenails had all been the same color. She covered her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the stupid white painted flower. Instead images from earlier flashed through her mind. His smile, his bare feet, the way his skin looked against the white button-down. His frown, the hurt in his eyes… She fell backwards with a groan. This is not how this night is supposed to end. Her fingers traced patterns in the white bedspread as she stared at the wooden ceiling and the impractical mosquito net. This night was supposed to be perfect—for both of us. A single tear dropped from her eye. This is stupid, she thought. Screw them. Screw him. He’s worthless, anyway. She didn’t mean to say it out loud. She hadn’t heard the door open; but she heard it close.