InTheFaeryRealm

Melancholy When there is rain on the window, I am home. I travel far away Where no one knows me I hear the demons of fear and mistrust whispering Taunting me to listen Now there is rain on the window, I am home. What a horrible day They say Gloomy skies make gloomy eyes But I disagree If there is rain on the window, I am home. Inside with my books Strolling with elves Dodging bullets Kissing valiant knights I look up There is rain on the window, I am home.

       The day passed agonizingly slow. After hours of meaningless TV, she managed to drag herself to the kitchen to make a top ramen. She ate her fill of ice cream, and then some.       When she saw it was about six o’clock, she got out of her pajamas and threw on a gray sweatshirt and blue skinny jeans; it was unusual for her not to take more care in picking out an outfit. She loved clothes.       She arrived at the Java Bean a few minutes before six-thirty. Coffee wasn’t something she had often, but she enjoyed it when she did, and decided on her drink before she went inside.       Bells jingled when she opened the door. An

       The alarm’s beeping started abruptly, continuing at one-second intervals. It picked up speed until it was unbearable, and only then did Josie reach over to hit the top of the clock. But she had already been awake.       The morning sun glinted through the window, yet did nothing for her spirits. Her eyes flickered to the windowsill, Moe’s favorite perch. The cat was not there. Nor would he be anymore.       She had awoken a few hours ago, when Moe usually begged for his breakfast. But there was no meow this morning. Only dead silence.       She couldn’t get up. Couldn’t get ready for work. It was only her thir

H. H. Biron Formal Writing Exercise: Week 2        My mother, born in Tokyo, was the daughter of two Lutheran missionaries. She and her two younger sisters grew up in Japan, going to public school and learning English at home. The three of them stood out from the beginning. Not only were they taller than most; the other kids, stuck with black hair like everyone else, were entranced by their exotic blonde hair. All three could be considered oddballs in their own way, but I know my mother best.        Though she began as the perfect daughter, becoming a pastor like her fat