An excerpt of my short story, as of right now titled Pass It On. Well, here goes nothing.
It was an atypical Sunday afternoon in New York: a day of crystal clear skies, white clouds dancing above the skyline, birds trilling lilting, musical notes. I was, of course, not outside, enjoying the first warm rays of the timid summer sun on my skin, but in the New York Public Library, researching British literature for my final thesis at NYU. It was my own fault, really, that I was holed up in the library, unlike all of my peers. I'm much too lazy for my own good, although somehow I managed to stay well above the class average due to my ability to work well under pressure, not to mention my uncanny knowledge on all things literary. If I hadn't procrastinated so entirely I might've gotten a few hours to myself that day, maybe to spend practicing for my lacrosse game that weekend or lounge lazily in the park with Norah and Stiles. Unfortunately, it's impossible to rewrite the past, and all things considered, that day turned out to be pretty eventful; but I'm getting ahead of myself.
All right, one paragraph at a time. (Please remember this is a rough draft)
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