Short Writing
Alone
I heard a noise from upstairs. I didn’t check what it was.
A strange buzzing sound seemed to flicker into being somewhere nearby. The house rattled—from the wind, I think. People outside spoke, and the dog growled at them.
The clock ticked. Cars passed.
And I was alone.
Poem for a Friend
It is 9:43 AM on a Monday morning. I do not have class today, only homework. I am in bed with my phone as I listen and relisten to recordings of my voice, trying to pin down the woody quality you say you like about it.
I realize as I listen to last night’s me sing Saint Bernard by Lincoln that what you mean is the roughness to it that I find harsh to listen to, that I do not like to speak with.
It makes me cry.
How beautiful to know someone who loves the things I don’t like about myself.