It Is Destroying Me That I Cannot

Celia Laughs And A Curl Of Her Hair Falls Across Her Cheek. Marco Tentatively Moves To Brush It Off Her Face, But Before His Fingers Reach Her, She Pushes Herself Off The Ledge, Her Silver Gown A Billowing Cloud As She Falls Onto The Pile Of Jewel-toned Cushions.

I Made A Wish On This Tree Years Ago," Marco Says. "what Did You Wish For?" Bailey Asks. Marco Leans Forward And Whispers In Bailey's Ear. "i Wished For Her.

There Is A Movement Happening, A Quiet One. A Low-profile, Low-resolution Revolution. Comprised Of Writers And Dreamers, Of Guerrilla Artists And Thought-ninjas. Those With Something To Say. They Communicate Through Text Inscribed On True Public Spaces, Rather Than Blogs And Forums. Choosing Fewer Words, Even Without Being Bound By 140 Character Limits. Using Ink Instead Of Pixels. Sending Messages In Living, Breathing Space. Pens Scream Louder Into The Void. Even If Permanent Ink Is Not Aptly Named.

I Binge Write. I Think It's Because I Started Seriously Writing By Participating In National Novel Writing Month, An Online-based Challenge To Write 50,000 Words In 30 Days.

People Don’t Pay Much Attention To Anything Unless You Give Them Reason To