sjsprWriting

Nervously sweating and pacing, she walked her room like a madman. Constantly glancing over to her desk to peek at the one thing that could save her from the cycle of monotonous anxiety her life had become. She would look at it, sitting there, black, cold, smooth, loaded with the hopes of escape that clawed at her rib cage, as ...

Everyone is at their house except students at Saint John's. It's a sad state of affairs when public officials can just not go to work and will just relax all day, and all the while I'm stuck here putting my life at risk. I truly wish I could be at home with my family, huddling together as we await the storm, bracing ourselves for it, and with the knowledge that if we were to die, we would do so next to each other. Saint John's has deprived me of that comfort. Instead,  I sit here worryin...

We are unlimited,

We are unbound,

Our power is a mystery,

Our strength, the very question.

From where do we gain this,

This ability to believe in the impossible,

In the unachievable

With the world breathing down your neck,

Pointing and mocking, refusing to understand.

From where do we gain this,

This conviction,

This certainty,

This hope.

What a strange beauty it is,

He dreams one of those memory-dreams. Remembers standing high up at the top of an old playground of chipped paint and rusted metal. (Something infinitely sad about the music there. Wistful. Ghosts of wispy dreams and wispy hopes. Lost. Lonely.) Remembers the sky was faded like worn denim and the air was muted. Lights shown bright, and he was not scared at all because the light was always comforting. With a piercing scream, he felt the floor around his feet give out, until he was standing alo...

She was performing today. Then again, she performs everyday. She can’t remember each day in specific, she can’t remember the faces. All she knows is that she performs for boring, un-amused, taut and cold people. While they sit in the red, velvet chairs of the theatre and she's performing, all they do is stare at her, but she stares right back. And while she can’t remember everything, she remembers the tugging. There is always this constant, incessant tugging, willing, no,...

Turning the knob, hoping for the absence of a struggle. A loud creek comes from expanded wood scraping against is counter part. They check on their fellow peers.

Peering around the corner, they assess the damage to their tattered home. Doors were swung open, not by choice. Wet furniture is sprawled across the rooms. They search and hope.

Hoping for the damage to cease. A loud b...

Gabriel

By Laura Camila Rivera

With eyes as dark and stern as yours

No wonder we're in fear

Throughout the years you've pushed them down

They've always hid their tears.

You're fragile when I come around

So old and out of place

But from the past youre stories thrive

They always leave a trace.

With wrinkled forces, thoughts askew

I'll never und...

How we never feel like the age we are at

I’m thinking about how being 17 feels like feeling 16 and feeling 15 and feeling 14 and feeling 13 and feeling 10 and feeling 5. I’ve been trying to hold this moment because I know it will be important one day to me because it is completely mine. I told you about how our lives connect, and how we have a part of each other and little parts of everyone else inside of us creating a whole universe of magical happenings. I like that we don...

Tick. Tock.

By then it had become a drone, an incessant, soothing drone. Lost in a daze, I stared at the typewriter. The letters. The buttons. The paper.

Tick.

I was unsure of how to begin the story.

I could not put down in fathomable words what I felt when I saw her.

How are ya?

I sensed her smile, remembering those jocose words. Looking over my shoulder, she wasn’t there.

Tock.

Prompt: "Week 2 is over". 

Where does week come from? 
From a definition measuring time elapsing or the Gregorian calendar?
What defines 24 hours as a day? 7, 24 hour days as a week? 

Why does my day begin at 12am and end the same?