>>26
...I did post stuff. I'll post an actual piece of prose, though, if you'd like. Part of a story I wrote last year (the whole thing's too long for it to go on here)
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Inevitable Life

Laying down on the soft grey carpet in a patch of sun reminds you of the Garfield cartoons you like to read every Sunday.

The marker you stole from off the counter rolls easily in your fingers, and as you smooth over the paper you took from Daddy's desk, you wonder how the blue and red lines get so ingrained. If you were to lay ink on it, you’re sure you’d feel an imprint.

So you do, dyed felt to paper. You’re only nine-years-old, and the dog comes out perfectly - lopsided, out of proportion, and so friendly, it wouldn’t matter that Mom never lets you play with them, because he’d be friends with her too. And Daddy wouldn’t care, because he always said you should have one, anyway.

You push yourself up and run off to find Mom, being careful not to go too fast on the wooden floors, because you’re in your socks, and your back remembers all too clearly the ache of falling last week.

You find her in the living room, close enough to the kitchen for her to hear the buzzer for the casserole you can smell cooking, spicy and crisp. She’s reading the latest Vogue, and you pull yourself up next to her, your feet dangling over the side of the cushion. Looking at the done-up rooms, the women smiling brightly in their odd outfits, you wonder if Mom would like it if you did that one day. Instead of thinking about it too much, you push your picture in front of the blonde with the leopard print on.

Mom laughs at first, trying to catch her giggles in her hands like she does when she’s had too much to drink at one of her dinner parties. You reach up to help her, grabbing at the ones that escaped her long fingers, dripping between her pink manicured nails. She gasps then, her eyes wide on the heavy marks that the marker had left on your hands when you couldn’t quite get the curve of the dog’s ears right, or the tail that wouldn’t stop wagging.

Frowning then, she pulls you into the kitchen, where she scrubs your hands down, the pressed recycled soap rough against your skin, and you blink back tears as she scolds you for “Making a mess before dinner.”

The hot water makes your skin tingle painfully, and you cry out, your voice whiny and thin. Mom lets you go, lets you fold your arms against your torso like a bird who flew too much in one day.

“Be careful next time!” she admonishes, and you nod, hoping that your voice will change to the arch that she commands.
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I've always liked 2nd person stories, but I'm still pretty new to writing them.