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  • Nonfiction > Memoir
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    The first time my grandfather brought me into his study to write Chinese calligraphy, I immediately noticed the dust. Flecks of gray hovered, perfectly stagnant, in the amber beams of light slanting across the room. I felt a strange weight upon me, the weight of that stillness, knowing that every ...
  • Nonfiction > All Nonfiction
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    It probably happened like this: As a child, when you were unsuspectingly loitering around the kitchen one evening, your mother beckoned you over to the sink and tucked a sodden sponge into your reluctant hand. There was no turning back. From that day on, you were the Designated Dishwasher. Your ...
  • Poetry > Sonnet
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    Cats are the masters of subtle talents. Nine lives and landing on four feet aside, on the thinnest fence they still find balance.  Stealth and finesse are at all times implied.    A feline tips her nose high like a queen, and places each pad with exquisite grace....
  • Poetry > All Poetry
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    She’s so much more than what she seems. Braces and a bumpy nose are her best disguise. She never shares what’s in her dreams.   Friends say they can help tighten her seams- She knows it’s time to snip those constricting ties.  She’s so much more than what ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    O glorious shower of hot water, I bequeath all my woes to your cleansing care: a week of camping’s layer of sweat, the dusty film of airplane cabin dryness, the coating of tiredness at each day’s end.   You never fail to rinse my cares away. Drop by steami...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    A skeleton with its organs missing, shadows of life linger on its walls. Loved voices echo silently: the house remembers its family. Someone else will move in. Cram their memories inside this shell, paint over the mourning walls, oblivious to the missing warmth. The house is made unreco...
  • Poetry > Haiku
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    dreams leave residue remembrances lost to morning alluringly veiled...
  • Poetry > Haiku
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    Life's a burning match. Touch others' lives, ignite them, before you burn out....
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    a meow sounds from the rubble of a steaming Earth. curiosity killed the cat....
  • Reviews > Book Reviews
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    “When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers” This African proverb begins an eye-opening exploration into the lives of children in conflict areas. Unlike newspapers and TV broadcasts, this book doesn’t focus on the ‘elephants’. It focuses on the grass, each individual blade of g...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    All I want to do is lie here on the hardwood floor, varnish sticky against my skin. I'll find a patch of sunshine, my own little patch, undiluted. I want to feel the silky-warm caress of the dusty beams on my face and hands, outstretched like I am forever leaping, quiescent as a memor...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    This is the only place I ever want to be, watching the tourists scuttle for buildings while we stay warm in our own shelter knowing we evaded the equator scorch. The raindrops, flecks chill and wet upon our bare shoulders, like diamonds glittering on our eyelashes, precious as...
  • Reviews > Book Reviews
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    In general, I can’t get through historical fiction books. I say ‘in general’ because there is one exception: this book. The Green Glass Sea is a book about two 11-year-old girls, set in the time of World War II. There’s Dewey, smart, weird and dorky, who loves taking things apart and bui...
  • Nonfiction > Travel & Culture
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    The air was crisp with the memory of rain. We tied our rain jackets around our waists and let our bare arms embrace the moist breeze. There was no one else on the path; the vacant wooden platforms meandered around the curves of cliffs and beaches as far as our eyes could see. On one side of us lay a...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    bags careening handles slamming against thighs frantic heel clicks shattering the lethargy of mundane travel routines excuse me sorry trying to make a connection sorry then the customs line: slower than the last drop of honey crawling down a frozen container. watch...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    "I always look like a tourist," she says in a carefully light tone. "Even when I'm at home." She forces a laugh. We glance at her warily, gauging how to respond. I want to tell her that the reason she looks like a tourist has less to do with her golden skin and the sla...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    She speaks in whens. When your sister gets nominated for an Oscar, I'll take you two to Paris and we'll buy designer dresses. When you graduate, I'll put your name on a poster and scream like I'm at a rock concert. That'll wipe the smirk off your principal's face. When I get better, we'll t...
  • Poetry > Haiku
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    The perfume you left has since changed colors; still I can't bear touching it....
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    She blushed at me, her eyes big and curious. So much to see, barely my elder- and she ended up here. My life is like a math problem, she said. Not sure what she really meant but looking at her I could tell it was, behind the optimistic eyes, true. We chatted for a while, her in her la...
  • Reviews > Book Reviews
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    People are calling this book ‘the next Twilight’ and ‘the new Hunger Games’. But it’s so much more than just a copy. It looks like a hot romance chicklit, but it has a lot more depth than you’d expect. Cassia lives in a dystopian world where the Society pretty much controls everything...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I will be your automatism, seeping into the blur between awake and dreaming. I will be your girl with one eye blending in to an anemone swirl, brittle shard of porcelain mouth glued to the bleakness of foreign bone. I will have an eel curving my nose, horses freed from the feathered e...
  • Poetry > All Poetry
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    Flipped through the photos, her trip to the beach, black-painted eyes and hair bone-blonde with bleach. Fake laughs, pasted smiles: fun with everyone there, then one, alone and head down, knees covered by hair. It was the truest thing I ever would see, so I deleted it, and left to continue ple...
  • Poetry > Haiku
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    Hate the way the sun frolics in your hair when his fingers stroke it....
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    We are colored girls, filled in with broken wax. A sketch for us each unfurls- we observe, and begin the cracks. We are fractured girls, they chip us from our shells. Only when the divested form uncurls- ‘tis not what we wanted, but who tells? We are hushed girls, made perfect with ...
  • Nonfiction > Memoir
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    Once, there were four of us, and we lived every day like one long, joyous moment of friendship. Being without friends is like getting lost in a huge supermarket when you were a little kid. There are people around you, but you don’t dare reach out to them, in case they ignore you or mock you. S...

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