I’m so sick of writing, sometimes. That’s why I’ve quit so many times. Even as I read that last sentence,
Time for…website migration! I have another website over at http://derekalanwilkinson.wordpress.com. However, I’ve decided to host my melodrama on my own
The pock-marked scabs that dotted the treeless, barren landscape on the face of our stronghold city, Labrinthia, were what held
“Yes, you’re going to die one of these days.” Libby stood on the porch to my best friend, Mikey’s, house.
“Put the gun down, Amy!” My voice went hoarse, unexpectedly, as the girl I’d just started dating three weeks ago
“What are you doing, here? Oh, I see. Good day!” I smile a lie. I find my way to where
“Look at the puppy, Daddy!” My just-turned-four-year-old-today stood next to my wife, Sarah, and a newly-erected porch gate in front
A few months back, I’d opened up a window on Sunday morning to keep the smell of bacon from wafting.
In 1987, a man drops an eight ball in the corner pocket, and goes home with a drunk girl impressed
Bruno, you poor bastard. Just when they thought Copernicus was crazy, you came striding in: “The stars are suns with
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