Category: Fiction

my assign­ment: tell some sort of sto­ry [what it is makes no dif­fer­ence] using an allit­er­a­tive sen­tence for each let­ter of the alpha­bet. Not all sen­tences have to be allit­er­a­tive. Also, use a sym­bol of some sort.

i used to sneak secrets between the sheets when i was young. they were thin things, i could just as eas­i­ly hid­den them in a thim­ble. some stolen cook­ies from the jar or watch­ing an unap­proved pro­gram on nick­elodeon. Neg­li­gi­ble, next to the nasty ones i have nib­bling through my navel-gaz­ings now. authen­tic­i­ty, main­ly, but in spir­i­tu­al, and espe­cial­ly emo­tion­al forms. my intel­lect feels authen­tic, but would not be capa­ble of ana­lyz­ing itself any­way. back when i was still queru­lous, those secrets now appear quite quaint and quirky.

i used to lay under my linen, rus­tle and undu­late through my undis­cov­ered stock­pile, and bur­row down until all seemed unclear. mind­fuck­ing my moth­er calls it. mind­fuck­ing is when wor­ry and woe writhe togeth­er and their whip­cords keep me with­out action. but before back then, i was a bit too base and bugged to even think about action, much less brood it to death. change came, the only para­dox­i­cal con­stant, change always comes, and when it came close to me, i cringed; it did­n’t care.
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