"Every little qualifier whittles away some fraction of trust on the part of the reader. Readers want a writer who believes in himself and in what he is saying. Don't diminish that belief. Don't be kind of bold. Be bold." - William Zinsser from "On Writing Well"

A plethora of dark clouds invaded the sky at sunset, the air chilled after the sun's descent. Jada reached beneath her leather jacket, counting the blades hidden within. Counting six, she began the walk from High Street to Sundown Avenue, a known haunt of the things she sought. She had half an hour before the street would be swarming with the vermin she hunted, and she wasn't prepared to deal with more than a half dozen at a time.

What is writing to me? It is a way that I can express my own unique ideas and emotions on a multitude of topics, whether they are subjects of debate such as politics, rarely, education, often or simply the imaginations conjured from my store of fancies.

I was short, fat, with braces, glasses and a face full of zits. I was a 1 and a half, as you once told him. Heh. I'm not mad, I suppose that's right. But I liked you. No, I loved you, as naïve as that may sound. I think it may have been as strong as love. I loved you since the first day. That day when I saw you wearing that ridiculous child tux, moping and pulling on your mother's skirt. I think he must have been standing somewhere next to you. He told me your mum brought him to the ceremony.

My panicked explanations of why I arrived on your doorstop at an hour known well only by insomniacs and night-workers were cut short by your hushing’s and musing’s. My usually articulate tongue became a prisoner of this sickly sweet, beige warmth your house was clouded in. You brought me hot chocolate and rum for the shock and to help me into a needed slumber. Like the mother you could have so well been, you tucked me into the heavy sheets and copious blankets, assuring me everything would be fine in the cool light of morning.

What Sascha Armenaud lacked in stature, she more than made up for in charm.

It arose from a combination of elements; at five-nothing and a hundred nothing, her clear blue eyes and dimples bespoke innocence and lent her smile a staggering impact. Her smile was common in company- no one who knew her personally could recall her ever looking anything but quietly upbeat.

Cynthia Mary Rose Darlin

could be described as anything but charmin.

She would run through the trees

and scrape her knees.

She tore her dress,

and her hair was a mess.

Enduring the most painful of sensations
can result in the inspired creation
of simple wonder, pure beauty.

I woke up lying on a cold floor of a dark room. I slowly got to one knee while shaking my head , trying to gather my wits about me. I noticed that the floor was concrete under my feet. Somehow my shoes and socks where missing. The lights came on and I covered my face from the blinding brightness of the lights. I slowly looked around and saw that I was in a small room with no furniture.

It was an eventful Sunday evening. Benny’s son was turning eight and he invited me to the birthday party. He had to watch over the kids so I offered to give him company. I don’t go out often and I’m definitely not welcomed by many people. It had been years since I went to a proper social gathering. I hardly have friends and I get phone calls once in a blue moon from a relative pretending to be concerned. I am pretty sure they only call me for my mother’s sake. She’s always so worried about me.

As Maria stood at the funeral party with the rest of the mourners, listening to them talk about how they would miss the deceased - about how the dead woman had had “so much" before "becoming dead”- she was suddenly enlightened by a different thought. Unless you died at an early age, you eventually got left behind, by everything and everyone.