“Who’s Stronger?” “Abandoned Building” and “I Am a Writer”-Alora


I placed my hand on his shoulder as softly as possible. He was squatting against the wall of our house with his head in one of his over-sized hands. That was the first and last time that I saw my father cry. His shoulders shook with his silent sobs and I couldn’t find it in me to cry in front of him. If I cried now, it would hurt him even more.

“We’ll be home soon, Dad, I promise,” and he finally looked at me as I said this. My father’s eyes had striking grey-blue eyes that popped out even more through his reddened and swollen eyelids.

“I promise,” I said again, trying my best to soothe him. Instead it made it worse, and he grabbed me and pulled me into a hug that I would never forget. It was the kind you receive from a father who loved his children even after he is already dead. I ran my hands gently over the top of his head, my fingers sometimes getting caught in his long hair. Before I knew it, my brother and I had to go. I watched my dad’s face out the back window of the cop car until everything behind us became nothing but a blur.

I was seven years old.


I was going to lose them both. My children were being taken from me and there was nothing I could do to stop them. As soon as I got back to the house, my legs decided to give up, and I couldn’t stand on them anymore. I hated myself because I couldn’t be strong from my wife and my children like I should be. I hid my face behind my eyes, trying to hide the unwanted tears streaming from my eyes.

I felt the small hand of a child rest gently on my shoulder. I looked down to the ground and saw the tanned-sandalled feet of my seven year old daughter; my little girl.

“We’ll be home soon, Dad, I promise,” I looked up at her and I saw that she wasn’t crying at all. Her eyes refused to even threaten me with her tears about the situation we were all in.

“I promise,” she whispered to me. I was supposed to the one telling her that. I was supposed to be the one to protect her, but I did nothing. I couldn’t do anything but hold onto her with the embrace of a father who may never see his children again.

She disappeared from my arms in what seemed like a matter of seconds. I barely saw the top of her head peering over the backseats and through the back window as both my daughter and son disappeared around the corner.

Let Me Count the Ways

“Abandoned Building”

How many ways can you describe a broken and abandoned house that needs to be burnt down and put out of its misery? It’s like asking how many ways you can skin a cat, or dissecting it. In what ways is a dead cat like an abandoned building? If you were to dissect both the cat and the house, you might call the paint on the house its skin, right? Then what would be the fascia, the muscle, the guts, the bones?

The muscle would be the exterior of the house. Perhaps the abandoned house is made out of wood, or even better, brick. The beam and wooden structures holding this bricks up would be like the skeleton of the house, but what would be the thing that give this house its energy? Perhaps, it is the millions of wires that used to supply power to the entire body of the house like arteries in a cat.

The glands of the house would be the bathtubs and sinks if one were to think about it. They secrete water as a gland secretes some type of fluid to break things down. What would a man be inside the body of the house? I think he would be the immune system and the disease at the same time. He fixes the house and keeps it healthy but he could just as easily destroy it in a moment of vindication.

” I Am a Writer”

I am a writer.

I swim in the sea of creative ideas


I gather them like a picker

in an orchard.

I am a writer.

I captivate the eyes


readers who crave

a made-up world.

I am a writer.

I can lose myself


a place that I can

never really be.

I am a writer.

I will never give


my right to be a

character in

my own



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