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  • Nonfiction > Memoir
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    With all due respect to Mr. Fisher Price, I prefer simple toys. I never went for any of the noisy, flashing, high – tech toys that the other kids liked, because they already had a story made up for them. And that was my favorite part of playing – making up the stories. My Barbie’s never just w...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Locks of blonde Slip out Of a dancer's bun So tight, To keep blue eyes open. In this room So bright, All are the same Parallel mirrors Reflecting this sameness Back to them forever. Same rises onto her toes. She gracefully lifts an arm. You cannot tell how much My feet hurt From sta...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    It is one of those days When the sky is such a piercing blue The brightness fading off into the distance Like a painting Or a song. That beautiful long note of sky Sustained in a gradual decrescendo A few clouds thrown on- A descant of violins floating subtly, Balancing the purity of bas...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Most say that when winter comes it blankets the world in snow. But it’s not quite winter yet and to me it looks more like a screen. Like seeing the world through a piece of rice paper or gray tinted glasses. (Buy them rose colored in March) If you look close enough, you can see what it us...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    It’s the kind of sky that you look out to on a bad day from behind the dusty curtains encasing your dark room. When you lie in bed and let your mind fold onto itself....
  • Fiction > All Fiction
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    They’re all the same. Beautiful and slender with golden locks and pastel dresses. The princes are handsome, the castle pristine. It sells. Girls named Mandy with plain hair and big feet do not make good stories. Princesses don’t fail math because they spend it looking at Michael Gold. Pri...
  • Fiction > All Fiction
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    My favorite color is brown. Ma doesn’t get it. “Why not something brighter, Like pink or yellow? Brown is so drab.” But brown is so rich, and warm, and comforting. Like hot cocoa and Nick, the stray cat we found - The one with the torn ear. Carly is brown. Her dark skin makes her gre...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    I kneel, facing the window, on mama's old couch. The yellow flowers are faded from the sun and worn from countless children bouncing, sitting, jumping, figeting. The springs squeak in a farmiliar way as I pull the gossamer curtains over my head. They are cool and whispy on the back of m...
  • Nonfiction > Personal Experience
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    Even rainy days are beautiful here. Early morning; we dance between the droplets, eat breakfast smelling like summer rain. Afternoon; we skid down muddy hills and collapse into piles of laughter at the bottom. Late night; we construct tiny tents in our beds with sheets hung over the rafters. We ...
  • Nonfiction > Personal Experience
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    As a child, I didn’t have a role model. Not a real one, anyway. I didn’t want to grow up to be a princess like Cinderella. Nor a singer like Hillary Duff. Not an actress on her own TV show, like Raven Symone. These were the people I knew about, the people my friends wanted to be. “I’m gunna ...
  • Nonfiction > Memoir
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    The Box. A cottage, a castle, a dungeon. A horse-drawn carriage or a pirate ship. The Box. I was four, I was sick, I was bored, and my mother was desperate. She dug an old TV box out of the attic. About the size of an armchair, it fit me easily. It was soon embellished with paint and stickers – a ...

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