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Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock.
Jingle bell rings while jingle bell sings.
Rowing and prancing and jumping to sing.
That's the jingle bell that i want to ring...
hey. it's my blog.
"Overspecialize and you breed in weakness."I'm differentiating between achievements and duties: I'm updating my résumé. I'm sorting through my previous published and ghostwritten work: I'm updating my portfolio. I'm at home taking in odd writing jobs and taking care of my wife: my bundy-clocking days are over.- Major Motoko Kusanagi, in the anime film Ghost in the Shell
When Mother and I pushed the boxes deeper into the back of the truck, a neighbor asked if we were leaving that apartment, the one that looked down on the road, with its second floor roof as pointed and quiet and still as that of a church's. Mother said yes as I carried more boxes piled up on the sidewalk into the truck. Neighborly small talk was rare for us, and Mother wiped her hands on her flowery shapeless duster's sides and chatted, with a wrinkled old man with sideburns, taking a break from moving the contents of our lives into yet another anonymous vehicle. We were used to this. All this moving from house to house, but this house, I never wanted to leave this house, this two-floored oddly-placed dwelling on the elbow of nowhere.Mother, in the piece, finds her Sunday, but even though the persona of the "I" does not, the piece ends on a note of hope. Eighteen pages of home remembered and described and a plot found and connected through scenes and sometimes, interior monologue. The narrative is told, or at least attempted to be conveyed, through understatement--a technique for which I only have this lifetime to perfect. Kerima Polotan has perfected it. So has her daughter, Kimi, who is my classmate in Jing's class. I also do not have Ricci's arsenal of imagery and mood achieved through metaphors and turns of phrase. I am not a poet like she is. (There is so much work to do. Ricci, by the way, is another classmate, and is already a teacher of creative writing. Compared to most of the people in class, I am an upstart.)
A veiled woman walking down the street caught my eye. So still were her shoulders when she walked. The air around me thickened. A breeze unveiled her face, undressing her long hair and I couldn't breathe or move at the sight of her. "Shoot to kill!" my captain roared from behind me. "She's the infidel we're looking for!"Abi
She poured a spoonful of the skull-marked bottle and swallowed it. Bitter. Just a slight sting in her stomach. She expected nausea but it didn't come. But then, that's me, she thought. I can take on anything. Except him. Him was the he walking back from the men's room, dodging other restaurant customers, flirting, with his brown eyes, with the waitresses. She took a menu from a waiter passing by and propped it up on her table for two, shading the gestures of her hands. She emptied the bottle on his coffee. "Hi, love," he said and she glared at him, and then she looked away. "I'm sorry. Old habit." After a thick silence, he said, sipping his coffee. "You sure there are no hard feelings?" She put everything she had in that smile.
promise it to the wind, write it on water, and hope someone will remember
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