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Dear Mr. Cigarette,
I have to say right off the bat that I feel a little weird writing you, but my Quit Right!™ Virtual Counselor suggested I give it a shot, so, well, here goes nothing! I just figure I’ve been doing things my own way for a long time
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Prabo was late.
It wasn’t like him, I thought, sitting on the steps of the Galle Face Hotel, the Indian Ocean pounding the beach abutting the nearby Galle Face Green and spraying fine mist everywhere. Or at least it didn’t seem like him.
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I would like to credit St. Mary's and St. Joseph's for my decision to become a Buddhist nun. The day after I sacrificed my virginity to Johnny Delaney, St. Joseph's star quarterback, he dumped me for Fiona Kelly. That's when I decided to…
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The girl lifts my head, and I sit up straight once again. She hands me a pair of old work gloves, helps put them on my swollen hands. She wipes my face with a wet, warm towel. Her thin arms tremble. She cries. I cry.
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"Is all life suffering?" Miss Ang asked as she parked in front of the brothel. The concrete monstrosity stood humble and lost in appearance, but the locals knew what transpired there, as did the truckers and businessmen that frequented the Phetkasem Highw
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One…two…three…can anyone else get past three? What if I’m the only one that can only get to three? Did I just fail life?
One…I’m doing this wrong.
I stop counting, but I keep my eyes closed. I stay seated in the lotus position and I don’t move, beca
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What counts most is not what's on the page, but what's left to the imagination. Has the writer left room for the reader to participate in the construction of meaning?
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"I write out of a deep need within myself for beauty. A beauty that I think can only be found through the practice, through the sacrifice over time that's required."
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