con--artist

The ink splotched as she wrote on a fresh sheet in her notebook. Perhaps she was pressing a bit too hard. Lyrial ripped out the page and stuffed it in her pocket. She stared at the new page and began to start the same letter again. But what was there to say? There was nothing in particular she wanted to write. And would anyone care enough to read it? She doubted it. Lyrial heard the soft clacking on the hardwood floor as footsteps approached her in the corner of the library. She quickly stuffed her letter under her textbook. "The library is closing in 10 minutes, Ms. Anderson. I suggest you leave," the librarian hissed through gritted teeth

It was a day just like any other day, insofar as it was not actually any other day than that one, but was probably closely related to most of the others. On this day quite like many other days but not actually another day, James Francis walked down the street with his friend Sally. The day to him seemed to be like most others. The sky was blue, as it usually was, the grass as always looked green and he found that he could breathe the air and live. As he walked he was going to remark to Sally how nice this day quite like any other day actually was when, to the ordinary day's surprise, something changed. James fell unconscious to the floor. T

If two angles of one triangle are similar to two angles of another triangle, then the triangles are similar. Recalling the memory of His geometry makes me sick with longing. That's the real reason I don't call Him every night, don't spend hours stuttering out words onto paper in some tremulous imitation of a love letter. The space I have behind conversation and human interaction is where He really lives, ready for me any time I need to remember. I don't even have to close my eyes before His own stare back at mine, revealing the storm clouds and stars that hover around His midnight-black pupils. The angles of His eyebrows, the slope of His no