alexjiminez_illustratedmug

I read it on the internet

Work in Progress

On my computer, I wrote troves of poetry and metaphorical stories, burdening Microsoft Word documents with lamentations about the depression I had been dealing with since fourth grade, and about my parents divorcing. Alone in my room, symbolic pen in my hand, I began, in earnest, to cement my career as a writer.
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space station

Space: A poem

dear you i have escaped the gravity of our world the thrusters are no longer firing i depend on the word of other men who linger in dark rooms twirling pencils atop arcane calculations watching my ship ascend to the stars   there is no seattle in space vacant skies
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coloredited_hannahcooper_architect

Architect: A short story

In your travels you come across a city which rises from the crystalline dust of endless sand dunes every two years and dissolves into the sand two years hence.
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Weekender2final_MarieSchonfeld

Fiction: Nero

I shouldn’t have picked up when he called. I know that. He just wanted to know how the dog was doing, anyway. I look down at Nero, who is trotting along in pace with me. He snorts and pants as he moves his sturdy little bulldog legs. He resembles a
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Untitled

Fiction: Semantics

I guess when I look back, it was all a question of semantics. Words were vital to me, a  part of my essence — but not a part of yours. When I was younger, I would sit in my room for hours devouring my favorite poems by Dickinson and Poe,
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