Spring cleaning mixed with antsy anticipations of moving has caused me to sift, throw, give, label. Also I quit my job too early and have a lot of time.

I came across a journal I had kept, not even three years ago. I read it, sometimes laughing, sometimes admiring, sometimes embarrassed, fully aware that it is my own writing, yet somehow distant from it. Myself, 2010, is a different character than myself, 2013.

Here are my favorite picks from the journal (some developed from creative writing prompts):

She's hot. A burner left on.

I was in Mexico, picking up pero's and porque's.

I bumped into a cellphone carrying a man.

Just the right amount of shock to numb their brains -- the residual echoing of God Himself.

Credit and debit taking up space in the eons of electronic data storage.

What made the earth this way? Unsettled usurped rebellion. A sheet bunched up.

She looked like she was about to cry, and then she yawned.

The lizard of my new boyfriend won't look me in the eye. Am I doing something wrong?

Writing a story should be like curling. Slow, growing tensions and rocks bumping together. 


If you can scramble them all into a one page short story (single-spaced), you win a prize.