A Mausoleum and the Windy Willow_Aftermath of Overthinking_Migrating Bird_Monster Under My Bed
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A Mausoleum and the Windy Willow
Present day, in a no-name small-town in the Pacific northwest, fifteen-year-old fraternal twins, Agatha and Christie, packed a large picnic basket with some homemade food and a couple of blankets. They each kissed their maternal grandparents on the cheek before setting out to Windy Willow Cemetery to spend the night. The teens had been planning this night since they heard the tragic news about their mother and younger brother from a despondent female police detective exactly one year ago. Their mother, Bernadette, was a talented writer who was obsessed with British authors and poets, hence her...
Aftermath of Overthinking
‘You can suffocate a thought by expressing it with too many words,’ a quote by Frank A Clark. Even the most complex thoughts and emotions could never be matched by simple words. Metaphorwww.onedoor.ccs and similes can only go so far in this world of literature. I wish I could be mysterious with every sentence of mine to contain hidden meaning, or would that be too much? Too intimidating? Or not enough, and not reach the expectations of others? Or perhaps, I’ve over thought about this once again. My thoughts overwhelm me, too many for me to handle. ‘Thinking too much will create problems that weren't there ...
Migrating Bird
In the great country of America there is an animal, that resembles the nation. This animal isn't any ordinary animal it is a bird. The national bird is known to be called Bald Eagle it was adopted as a symbol of the United States in 1782 and was chose for its majestic beauty, great strength, long life, and because it's native to North America. This bird has great instinct when it comes to survival. When it gets colder they migrate to the southern areas of the region to mate and have nesting grounds. They eat fish, insects, and other things along the waters where they live. And as all of the fa...
Monster Under My Bed
Monster Under My BedThe exact details are hazy. I was in college, my junior or senior year, and it was a creative writing class. We were in the computer lab that day, working on our personal essays, but many of us were stuck. “Take a snapshot from your life,” our professor told us. “Select a good one- a hard one, a happy one. Take your pick. And then write about it. How hard can it be?” Behind the glib tone, however, a smile; he was heckling us, and we returned it with equal fervor. Mock fervor; pretend outrage. Our relationship with him was easy, comfortable. An older man, tall and slightly s...