• 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…