"The Punctuation of Past Relationships" - Twenty-Two Twenty-Eight (2018) - Creative Non-Fiction
I was not looking forward to turning twenty-seven. In fact, anything after twenty-five was just a bitter reminder that I was one year closer to thirty, which meant one more year of avoiding the increasing pressure from my mother that it was time to think about having kids. She was slowly losing subtlety. Last year’s gift bag included a collection of pastel baby bonnets. So, at first, I’m happy to be spending twenty-seven sitting in an airport eight-hundred miles away from another lecture about my reproductive responsibilities. That is until I receive an unexpected birthday message from my ex-whatever while sitting at my terminal gate.
*2017 Halloween Contest Finalist*
"Devil's Trap" - The Furious Gazelle (2017) - Fiction
There are rumors of a Devil’s Trap thirty minutes north of Raleigh. People claim it’s a perfect circle where nothing lives or grows. But it’s more than just a radius of scavenged dirt in the middle of the woods. Some say it’s being watched. They say that if you leave something behind, an artifact or maybe even a peace offering, it’s gone by morning. No one knows who comes to take it away, but nothing survives and nothing stays inside this circle of scorched earth.
"What's Your Name Again?" - The Furious Gazelle (2016) - Creative Non-Fiction
...I’d been to frat parties before. I’d been to frat parties, French parties and even theatre parties that never failed to include an ensemble rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. While each party had its own agenda, they always ended the same: I left alone. I was well aware that my RBF and general hatred for most of the world’s population was not a turn on by any means. So on weekends I’d put aside the ripped pants and oversized shirts for a glittery tank top and way too much eyeshadow. I’m sure I looked as fake as I felt, but I wanted them to notice me the way they noticed Tab and Vikki and every other girl that warranted attention. Yes, it was a lie. I didn’t normally dress like that. I didn’t normally drink cheap beer and bob my head to indistinguishable sounds posing as rap music. They could get to know me later, though, after I’d lured them in with flashy colors and a plastic smile. But they never did. They never took the bait, and I was getting tired of sitting on the dock with my disappointment and a cheap pole.
"Sharing Isn't Always Caring" - Sweatpants & Coffee (2016) - Creative Non-Fiction
...The boy I’d been in love with for three years came to me one night and said he’d finally found a way to end my unyielding longing. “Have you ever heard of polyamory?” he asked. Being the exact kind of desperate he was attracted to, I couldn’t wait to hear the details. Originally, I wasn’t interested. He didn’t even seem that interested in the idea. His face didn’t light up at the prospect of being together. He plus a girlfriend equaled me sad. So how could he remedy this unfortunate dilemma? By being with both of us. It was a formula and we were all just factors in the equation to end my suffering.
"Abandoned" - Canto Online Literary Magazine (2014) - Creative Non-Fiction
...He calls me on a Sunday afternoon around four. He never calls me. I have a hard enough time getting him to return the calls that I leave lingering on the answering machine once a week just to make sure he’s not dead at the bottom of the basement stairs. There’s always an excuse for why he can’t come to the phone. He’s either cleaning the litter box or taking a nap or putting lotion on his hands. There’s always some reason I have to call back. I don’t mind; just as long as he’s still alive.
"Are you sitting down? Do you have a few minutes?" he asks.
Immediately, I’m anxious. Somebody must be dead. And there are only so many people it could be, all of whom are far too young to die naturally. I know I'm about to get some tragic news on this beautiful drive home from the grocery store. Maybe it's the cats. Come to think of it, he only sounds this concerned when one of them is sick or behaving strangely. Rosie is probably eating Ozzy's food again. I can handle the cats. Please, let it just be the cats...
"Are you sitting down? Do you have a few minutes?" he asks.
Immediately, I’m anxious. Somebody must be dead. And there are only so many people it could be, all of whom are far too young to die naturally. I know I'm about to get some tragic news on this beautiful drive home from the grocery store. Maybe it's the cats. Come to think of it, he only sounds this concerned when one of them is sick or behaving strangely. Rosie is probably eating Ozzy's food again. I can handle the cats. Please, let it just be the cats...
"Untold" - The Yellow Bird Literary Magazine (2012) - Creative Non-Fiction
...One by one I tear open the drawers tossing every article of clothing into the air. It rains t-shirts, trousers and tank tops. Every piece of fabric within arm’s length falls victim to my frenzy. My mind isn’t racing with reason or intent. I am only feelings, a pit of betrayal and pain. I grab a white undershirt hurling it towards the ceiling. That’s for driving me home under the influence of your insecurity. A torn, paint-stained button up lands just beyond the bed frame. That’s for stumbling down the basement stairs in front of all of my friends. Soon every drawer lies askew and a layer of destruction covers the cold hardwood floor. My throat lets out one last scream for sanity.
He stands in the doorway laughing...
He stands in the doorway laughing...
"The Gift" - The Great Lake Review (2008) - Creative Non-Fiction
...She sits behind her tattered notebook, this mini-version of myself. Her fourteen year-old inquisitive stare makes me proud to call her sister. An English assignment has put us here in her bedroom with a list of questions and my readiness to assist.
"What is the craziest thing you've ever done?" I chuckle to myself and dive into my own personal memory bank, back stroking between summers and school years to find an answer.
Suddenly it comes to me along with a look of distant bitterness.
"Craziest thing I've ever done? Told someone how I felt."
She smiles at me with satisfaction, "Good answer."...
"What is the craziest thing you've ever done?" I chuckle to myself and dive into my own personal memory bank, back stroking between summers and school years to find an answer.
Suddenly it comes to me along with a look of distant bitterness.
"Craziest thing I've ever done? Told someone how I felt."
She smiles at me with satisfaction, "Good answer."...
"Momster" - The Great Lake Review (2007) - Creative Non-Fiction
...Scrape. Thud.
Light cascades into the room outlining the towering shadow of terror. Blink a few times to adjust the pupils and then melt yourself into the pastel plaster. Steady, heavy footsteps creak closer edging on the boundaries of the darkness. From the far corner a small gasp escapes the tiniest pair of lips exposing her small shaking figure.
“I see you,” a low rumble sounds from somewhere deep within the bowels of the demon.
If I can’t see it, it can’t see me. Close my eyes to shield myself from the chase. The bed above me creaks and a small rush of air brushes my hand covered face. Involuntarily my eyes shoot open to see the protruding bed springs bending under a large body. It’s so close I can almost hear it breathing.
Without warning a rough hand shoots between the bed sheets and the wall grabbing hard onto my clothes.
“Ah!”...
Light cascades into the room outlining the towering shadow of terror. Blink a few times to adjust the pupils and then melt yourself into the pastel plaster. Steady, heavy footsteps creak closer edging on the boundaries of the darkness. From the far corner a small gasp escapes the tiniest pair of lips exposing her small shaking figure.
“I see you,” a low rumble sounds from somewhere deep within the bowels of the demon.
If I can’t see it, it can’t see me. Close my eyes to shield myself from the chase. The bed above me creaks and a small rush of air brushes my hand covered face. Involuntarily my eyes shoot open to see the protruding bed springs bending under a large body. It’s so close I can almost hear it breathing.
Without warning a rough hand shoots between the bed sheets and the wall grabbing hard onto my clothes.
“Ah!”...
