a thought, a few months too late, is that i really actually miss my creative writing class. but i do not miss reading everyones' stories about computer hackers or creepy spy dudes. so mainly i just miss my ultra-hip professor and the things that i was able to write during that time.

"There were the firemen, big, bulky looking, spraying down the car with a hose and popping the tires. Feet away stood the old woman, watching her Buick dissolve into nothing useful. Her face was that of someone in shock—not scared, but not present, either. She just stood there.

The car was nothing but scraps of metal, and the other employees came in from the outdoors because the smell was too strong. A lone fireman walked away from the scene to the local Redbox, like he hadn’t just put out a fire. Jermaine almost had to laugh about it. He had never wanted a cigarette so bad, which struck him as odd after just seeing a fire destroy something. He walked outside for his break and lit it up, inhaling as he watch the last traces of smoke fade into the grey skies."