My little sister hung onto her handlebars with their streaming ribbons. "Maddie, it's fine. It's just an old house." A window shutter slapped the siding, making both of us jump. Maddie worried gaze begged me to lead us down the street and closer to home. "It's just the wind." The afternoon sun gradually dimmed to its rosy dusk color. "Sure it is, Howie."
"You have every reason to be," Mom said, "but you also have every reason to do this for you. You're the reason you're here." Renowned composers and musicians' names were etched in the practice room's wood paneling. I played many of their pieces, listened to hundreds of concerts, and now I sat in the very halls where some of them studied. That could be me, I thought.
“These are people,” I replied. I felt suffocated as we stood over the whole wedding reception. Surely Trent listened in somewhere. Kass’s lip twitched then she raised her champagne glass until the bubbly drink disappeared. “Half-people, my dear,” Kass said, hand her glass flute to a passing waiter. “They’re half-human.”
Opportunities meet you halfway. You need to work toward them so you're ready for whatever they ask of you. Jobs, promotions, college acceptances don't happen for no reason; they happen because you're qualified and proved yourself up to that point.
"You never thought about moving?" "And leave this view? Screwdriver." "Huh?" "Screwdriver. Please." "Shane, how many boards do we need?" "As many as this boat gives us."
I still have to read through my first draft of Harvest. It's been nearly three months since I finished it but I don't know where to start. The obvious answer is page one, however, I don't know what I'm looking for.
The sun beat down on the backyard. Grass, which usually felt soft and soothing under our bare toes, felt scratchy and stiff that day. Maggie picked at the wood pile for the fire ring beside the shed. Her chipped painted nails chipped at the dry logs' bark. I brushed anthills away with the tip of a stick.
I can't be mad at myself for not doing one passion of mine when I'm doing something in the other, especially when the two cross-over. If you find yourself in a similar situation, remind yourself that you're still doing it, and you can always change focus again when the time and calling require it.
Fred, just turned nineteen, gripped his rifle tight against his chest. Soot and dirt caked his face, giving him an ashen mask over his pasty, Irish skin. His throat hummed but his lips trembled and chopped up the melodic breathing.
Procrastination and an impromptu list on why I love writing to get me out of this recent funk.