In which I ramble about the effectiveness (or lack thereof) of using a notebook and pen to draft a story.
I stumbled upon a proposition. It was an idea so stupid, so idiotically presented that it couldn’t possibly work but it also couldn’t possibly not be tested.
“Hey lady!” The figure called out as they bridged the gap, coming close enough that Evelyn could almost make out human features. “Hey, I wouldn’t go that way if I were you. Some messed up shit back there.” It was a kid, a teenage boy, probably not even old enough to vote. He was walking fast now, just a little short of jogging, hood over his head, his face shadowed as he got closer.
Hello, my name is Diego Green and I am NOT a writer. But I'd like to be. For a very long time, probably the entirety of my adult life, I've lived under the assumption that I am a writer. I learned early in life that I had some natural talent for storytelling and wordplay and... Continue Reading →
“At least tell me where the fuck you’re taking me.” “Scenic route, like I said. Morris Road.” The shadow forms of rising corn fields bordered the road. In the near distance, visible through the brights, the overarching boughs of the ancient trees seemed to consume the road. “We’re entering the marsh now.” said Cheryl with... Continue Reading →
It really is amazing how dramatically different a given landscape can appear depending on where one is standing.
But even two people standing in the exact same spot will have unique responses to an identical scene, each interpretation shaped by his or her personal experiences and interests - what might appear like a mundane, everyday occasion to one person may seem spectacular or even horrifying to someone else.