Max GillmerModicaThe breeze blowing through the trees sounded like the ocean. The Adirondack chair in which I sat was warm from the sun beating down on it…Oct 1, 2018Oct 1, 2018
Max GillmerThe Black White ChurchThe room looked white, but it was filled with Black. With Black. With Brown. With Tan. With… whatever I am. Memorial church, where I sat…Sep 25, 2018Sep 25, 2018
Max GillmerA Morning with My GrandpaWe rose at around four in the morning, which for a ten-year-old (and also for my sixty-odd-year-old grandparents) was in the middle of the…Sep 25, 2018Sep 25, 2018
Max GillmerThe One-Note PianoDing… Ding… Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding… Ding. My fingers slammed on the ivory key out of frustration. The faint clicks of my fingernail on the…Sep 23, 2018Sep 23, 2018
Max GillmerThis Is Not My StoryMy teacher, Mr. Woodard, believed that verbal storytelling was a way to foster and evoke emotions as everyone has different narratives that…Aug 12, 2018Aug 12, 2018
Max GillmerFirst Date, Part IIDarkness settled by the time we emerged from the T stop, but the city lights reflected off of the partly cloudy sky, ever so slightly…Aug 12, 2018Aug 12, 2018