Shortstory.

An exploration of Xenophobia.

A limmerick I wrote back in 5th grade, just found it in the closet.

The diary with sophisticated wit, with all the beauty the graveyard shift clerk of a 24-hour convenience stores can offer. Written by a bitter existential poet. half-woken. and more so asleep.

Burma’s (Myanmar’s) plight can be calculated in terms of suffering that seems endless, since its liberation from Japanese occupation during World War II. The world seems to overlook its predicament, except by way of orally showing concern, but with China’s seemingly selfish opposition in the way of any kind of concrete action to flex its muscle, there seems to be no solution at this time. (To be continued)

When working in retail, there is a certain feeling that creeps in after so long and it causes for the wonder: What’s wrong with these people?

On the midnight-to-eight shift, Officer Brown managed to get off early one night and went home.

An armed drug dealer and his gangs rob the bank in January 17, 1992.

I was given a bunk in a little storage room off of the kitchen and next to the outhouse.

The fish don’t actually fly. A man walks into a store wanting to purchase something.