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get the words out.
Write in any genre in
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I was a ghost.
Well, that's a lie. I wasn't sure what I was. All I knew was that I was trapped here, along this lake, unable to leave, for quite some time now. About four thousand and fifty seven days.
So a ghost would make sense, right? (more)
I remember when I first learned how to skip stones on the water. It was at Lake Tahoe, and my dad was teaching my sister and I. He was able to get up to fourteen in a row, and I could barely manage two. Such a simple and carefree(more)
just another something
that everyone seems to know how to do
another imperfection
that sets me apart from the others
something i’m far too used to
being less able (more)
things are no longer as they once were

no crunch of leaves as i walk over them

the birds refuse to sing anymore
She finds it while ambling along the river's edge, leisurely scouting for various rocks and pebbles perfect for the age-old tradition of hurling them at bodies of water under the pretense of knowing the art of skipping stones.
Ripple, ripple, ripple. Every time the stone flies away from my hands and the lake water below waiting for it just barely touching the water it ripples. You can gingerly place a leaf on the calming water, it will ripple too. You can kick the water, it too will(more)
The rise is exhilarating; pure energy that fuels paintings and sculptures, a magnum opus created in bursts. Light that burns in the best way possible and nights untarnished by sleep. He loves the flight, the arc, the sight of surface smooth as glass and dark beneath from his perch(more)
the edge of the stone pressed to the side of my middle finger, the pad of my thumb holding it to the curve of my fore finger, the water licking sloppy and cool at my calves and i tilt my wrist and feel it in my shoulder when there(more)
I remember when summer meant long days by the lake, when the smooth curve of blue stones pressed against my fingers felt like home. Those were the days when I mistook muffled screams for laughter (because Daddy told me so).
They didn't used to be so heavy, he didn't think. He used to lift them with far greater ease. Now it took effort. Now his body protested as he heaved backwards and threw them. He rarely got the angle right any more. They flew a short way away and(more)
He's never been able to do it right - something about the way he flicks his wrist, something he does or maybe doesn't do with his fingers that screws the whole thing up. Tara teases him mercilessly for it, jabs her elbow into his side with a lopsided smile(more)
He picks at the grass with his fingers, idly pulling it from the ground, peeling it apart, fidgeting with it. He's bored. He's been waiting for over an hour.  

He's not sure why he keeps waiting, though. He knows that it doesn't matter how long he sits there.(more)
Flat rocks, skimming over water. The search to find the perfect stone, round and just big enough to fit comfortably in your hand. Flicking your wrist with a flourish and watching them go.

Plip. Plop. Plip. 3 times, a new record. For the last time, your dad yells(more)
"I just can't do it!" Toki exclaims, tossing his pile of rocks to the ground.
"Just practice," Akiyama says, throwing another stone and watching as it skims lightly over the surface of the water one, two, three, four, five times before sinking into the water.
"I don't want t(more)