Category Archives: Uncategorized

Bayou Blues

I never expected to be here. No one told me to move to New Orleans, or that I could find a job that allowed me to sit in the sun all day. The water, orange-dark and filmy, holds and carries … Continue reading

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Laney

Emma’s mom watches us back down the driveway, her arms crossed against the chilly air. The lights falls around her silhouette. Headlights highlight her unreadable expression. An older me would have been grateful for her concern. The person sitting in … Continue reading

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Apparently I Wrote This…

My baby, why do we keep on moving? Which of us needs to go and hates to stay? I smile, you wink. We hold hands. We hold each other. We can’t hold still. I eat, you go to work, I … Continue reading

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I Was

I was a good writer, once. I was a good writer because I wrote. I wrote because I had that fire inside, the one they talk about, the fire that kept Hemingway drunk and Emily alone. The fire that my … Continue reading

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Pine Ridge

This piece integrates quotes from a recent NY Times article, “Next to Tribe With Alcohol Ban, a Hub of Beer,” which can be found in full online: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/06/us/next-to-tribe-with-alcohol-ban-a-hub-of-beer.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=pine%20ridge&st=cse As we approach the western border of South Dakota, I know we’re … Continue reading

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Freedom.

Here is a story I’ve told no one else. My little brother drank himself to death. He was eleven. There is a field behind my house. He and his friend P.J. stole two bottles of vodka from P.J.’s uncle. By … Continue reading

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That One Girl, That One Time

We waited almost an hour for our food. My stomach was eating itself by the time our plates arrived, barely enough table to hold them all. “I’m going to wash my hands,” she said, excusing herself and sliding out of … Continue reading

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Poetry Apologies

Sorry it’s been so long, fans. All two of you. Being hellabusy is my only excuse. However, I’m in a poetry class this semester, and I’d love nothing more than to subject my readers to my attempts to write poems.

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Photograph

Hot July. The air is buzzing and the dust is flying behind the blue pickup truck as it barrels up to the ridgeline. He parks on the edge of the road, the truck leaning sideways like it could roll down … Continue reading

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Time

Lately I’ve been playing with the idea that time is subjective. In the last year or so it occurred to me that if time is only a psychological perception of “something passing,” then it can be manipulated, like most psychological … Continue reading

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