• Creative Writing

    Lists

    She and I will go on dates masquerading as friends and confess the things we save for falling stars. I am enamored with leaving our hometown, and the more I speak to such a life, such possibilities, the more I witness the image I saved for her unravel across from me. I will receive an acceptance letter in the mail. I will leave. I will never see her again.

  • Creative Writing

    Rokko-shidare

    O watched the road with a concentration that sat heavy on her forehead, pulling her brow in a hardened expression that left her tense despite the ease at which Q maneuvered the car along the mountainside. They drove in comfortable silence, with the wind pressing against the car in a slow building howl that echoed off the window pane. She sucked in a breath, then blew out through parted lips, forming an O to match the sound of the wind. It was quiet besides the occasional note whispered through the stereo speakers. Her eyes were trained on the white lines painted across the pavement, worn from the weather and brief…

  • Creative Writing

    Little Birds

    “Something’s wrong,” he whispered, laying the bird down on the table. It slid out of his palms, its head bending backwards so the nape of its neck nearly touched the mantle beneath. The wings were fashioned like a cocoon, tucking the body away, the white feathers neither ruffled nor out of place as Wynn let it roll onto the counter. Audrey leaned forward over her homework and touched the bird anxiously, her index finger just barely pressing against its mangled right leg.  “Where did you find him?” Audrey asked, looking up at Wynn. He rubbed his nose with his sleeve and shrugged. “I think Kaiser killed him.” Audrey nodded, turning…

  • Creative Writing

    So This is How We Leave Things?

    And here I am. I’ve created something entirely fictional in my head, writhed the words and tales until the person who’s sitting in front of me has become the distorted image of something left behind. He doesn’t speak, just gestures towards me, his hand signals mixed and distorted in their delivery. I nod though I do not understand. The tips of his fingers begin flaking, breaking into pixelated pieces, dissolving into the stale air that separates our hands from reaching one another. The heater hums above us. Somewhere near the front of the cafe, I hear the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. Perhaps I imagine it, yet it…

  • Creative Writing

    Inside a Body

    This flesh, they tell me that it’s mine. They point to me and spell out those words, their mouths forming long O’s and wide A’s. This flesh, if I tug at it, if I carve into it, if I dispose of it, will never escape me. It will grow with me, grow on me and spore. If I choose not to love it, they will not take it away. … I am addicted to this body and it is addicted to me. … “Bulimia doesn’t work,” she says, shrugs, then reaches over to dip a fry in the cup of ketchup between us. She dunks it, pushing it down so…

  • Creative Writing

    Vagabond

    First (she raises her left eyebrow a fraction upwards, the arch causing wrinkles to appear across her forehead) – suspend belief for a moment – this is what the woman across from her says, her hair draping down like a curtain to cover her face as she jots something down on the pad sitting in her lap. Think of something warm. Breathe in. Deeper. No, deeper than that. O frowns, then sits back farther into the couch cushions. Right now she’s pretending that everything she’s about to hear isn’t complete bullshit. She’s trying. She promises she’s trying. Count backwards from twenty. × “This is the third time this week,” he…