Creative Writing

Poem: Life happens

She looked. He noticed. She ignored. He noticed. She approached. He listened. She recoiled. He waited. She left. He watched. She texted. He responded . She texted. He texted. She texted. He texted. She loved. He rebuffed. She cried. He ignored. She begged. He forgot. She moved. They grew up. He called. She answered. He…
<a href="https://highschool.latimes.com/author/jerejay/" target="_self">Nykki Garland</a>

Nykki Garland

May 6, 2016

She looked. He noticed. She ignored. He noticed. She approached. He
listened. She recoiled. He waited. She left. He watched.
She texted. He responded . She texted. He texted. She texted. He
texted. She loved. He rebuffed. She cried. He ignored. She begged. He
forgot. She moved.

They grew up. He called. She answered. He talked. She talked. He
talked. She talked. Blah blah blah. He loved. She hated. He asked. She
ignored. He left.

She texted. He went. She cried, sobbed, hurt. He yelled. She yelled.
He hit. She hid, waited. He left. She relaxed.
She married, beared, widowed. He called. She ignored. He called,
called, called. She threatened. He stopped.

She drank. He sat. She noticed. He talked. She panicked. He
apologized. She rejected. He smoked. She smoked. He hated. She hated.
He explained, pleaded, begged. She cried, finished, refused. He stood.
She stayed. He left.

She loved. He loved. She moved, remarried, died. He visited. He wept. He died.

Poem: To My Target Panic

Poem: To My Target Panic

I remember the first time I met you, the first Sunday of September. Before we met, archery was predictable; my routine was reliable. The weight of my quiver, the resistance of my string, the curve of my limbs, and Sunday morning practice, it was always the same. But...