Watch What Happens, Alana Williamson

I followed the impulse up the stairs to stand in my bedroom, to fade into its familiarity. The same bed, the same tousled covers flung haphazardly the past morning. If we each owned a lifelong landscape, in this moment my bedroom would be mine. The same mess...the same solace. Sometimes being in my room feels like an escape. It feels like I could detach from the world and drift into the clouds on my worn rug island. I proceed to bury my face in the blankets, pick up a pillow and press it to my skin, plummet into a sweatshirt. My sanctuary. In here, even if it's temporary, I'm safe from everything else. Free from everyone else. I'm distracted from the inevitable. You're supposed to be looking for something... Ah! Thank you brain for the reminder. I'm here because I'm looking for something! Something I need... I feel my eyes snap into their searching regimen. Scan the room, glance left then right, identify the difference. Find what's out of place.....remove it...

  I am the nebula. I am but the gas of a dying star. A fading remnant of greatness, I am the mass, the mess, the dust left in my star's death. Watch as my star explodes and dies. Marvel at its life and admire the trash it's left behind. Yes the nebula glistens, yes the nebula expands in technicolor. But I am the nebula and my star is dying, maybe it's already dead. Wrapped in abandoned dreams. Grasping for forgotten memories. Acknowledged as a sight, yet existing as haphazard haze. Swallowing the star in its wake. The star strains to break free, but I've consumed it. The star must explode. It twinkled so brightly. It lit the darkest of nights, it admired the expanse of the sky. The star loved, the star worked, the star strived for more. But now the star is gone. And I am here. The nebula. Stretching, disgracing the star's plane. Reaching out to hold it's hand, the hand of a dying star. A hand I can no longer hold. A hand I have no right to hold. I am the nebula....

 "Continuity of Parks" Reaction Julio Cortazar's "Continuity of the Parks," blurred the line between fantasy and reality, the experience resembled that of reading a book. The short story reminded me of immersing myself in a good novel, the more you read the further you slip into a different world, no longer aware of your own. The same thing happened to the protagonist as he read. This sentiment is evident in the writing, forcing the reader to bare witness to the implosion of both worlds, the further along the short story goes the more the book coincides with the protagonist's reality. Falling deeper into the story seemed to summon its inception of the book and reality, leaving the reader unable to discern the two. The concept of continuity is interesting and beautifully wielded throughout the short story, seamlessly connecting fiction with reality, an interception of novels and prophecy. "Continuity of Creative Writing Class," Mr. Herring bounded o...

  Slipping Away I feel the energy draining, leaving Face the insomniac dreading the night Swaying shadows are often deceiving Scared of the darkness yet fearing the light Praying for safety that I don't deserve The voices are swirling, reeling my mind Do I have sanity left to preserve? Feel my eyes flutter, what beast will I find? Slipping, ticking away are the hours Guilty this conscience, deny don't confide All my ambitions, wrongdoing devours Recalling happiness, swept it aside Footsteps approaching I know that it's time Forgive my negligence breathing I've mimed