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  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Your head rested on my hipbone where my T-shirt crept up, as I stretched in the meadow like a cat beside an open window, my sleepy fingertips lost in the roots of your hair. I reached down to stroke your wrist, and asked if I could read your palm. You peeked at me through a mane of brass...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I'm eight years old, and I stand at the kitchen counter with a gnawed apple in my hand, the edges beginning to rot, the hips of the core, a chamber with brown tear drops that peek through. My father tells me, as though he's reading a storybook, "If you go outside and plant it,...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    And as the ink slides off my paper I can't help but think that it's one of those unspoken things, one of those things you're just supposed to know, once you're a big kid in college that what you write should be real. But right at this moment, I can't help but fee...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    The sunshine was nearly as sweet as the citrus flesh that burst between her teeth. Robin nimbly skinned another orange slice, a buoyancy arising within her that went unhindered by any superficial detail, such as the pulpy blood which dried on her knuckles, or the filmy skins between her teeth. A rea...

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