The exemplar I wrote for my class's Darwin's Dystopia assignment.

Blonde hair, wavy, put up in a messy bun. Her jeans had a hole in the knee, and she was wearing an oversized camouflage jacket. It was 1997.

Linda stepped out of the car, bewildered, and began walking back to see what they hit. She thought it was a moose.

My Mother's Eulogy.

She was short. And compact. Like a rock climber or something, and I’m sure she climbed rocks sometimes.

We’d watch Bob Ross paint a “happy little forest,” and make fun of his speech and his afro, but never his paintings. We liked his paintings.

“Have you ever sparred before?” “No, Sir.”

If I have seen someone, even only briefly, and then I see them again, I recognize them.

When he cheered, I cheered. When he cursed the ref, I booed. We’ve always been close.

He smiled at the press conference and apologized to the twenty-year-old girl, but admitted no guilt.

As soon as anyone heard sirens, they walked away from the scene. Just walked, no running. This is Baltimore, after all.

You’re aware of how fragile this sugar sculpture is.