Wild Onions

I’ve been around the world and seen loud, high-occupancy locations, but I’ve never seen anything quite like steak night at Bryan College. There’s something about a throng of humans raging for red meat that makes my blood curdle in a special way. It’s like a zombie apocalypse aimed at cows. 

Everyone knows you can count the rings on a tree trunk to see how old it is. If you counted my rings right after I moved to North Carolina, I would be 15 years old. 

The key that unlocks my dorm room is a guardian of safety and quiet. He and his twin—of which my roommate got custody—are the only way to access my world of clacking keyboard and Frank Sinatra. 

The following is an excerpt from my final creative writing portfolio. The subject I was given was “sleep.”

I turned off the AC and all the lights. Then I turned off my fan and unplugged my surge protector. After a while of sitting, I got up and unplugged my roommate’s refrigerator. With the refrigerator went the last stronghold of noise in the room, and a heavy calm fell on my surroundings.  

The snails in the South are small. They are tiny, brittle affairs with heads that are barely visible. They themselves are a rare sight—seemingly spending their whole lives in hiding. They are, as a species, very disappointing.