Writing as if my life depended on it
Ten-year-old Maggie begins an August Monday at five a.m. She wakes with the sun and lies still for a minute, listening intently.
A short, short story.
She’s so tired she can barely stand up, let alone contort her body into Downward Facing Dog.
Downward Facing Dog. Who came up with these names anyway?
And there, right at the crown, like red intersections on an old map of a half-forgotten place, she sees the physical scars for the first time.
To pseudonym or not to pseudonym?
When I recently decided to dive into publishing my writing online, I confronted a question I’m sure many writers have grappled with.
Do I publish under my real name or a pseudonym?
One beautiful, spring Sunday afternoon not too long ago, I rode a bicycle for the first time in over twenty years. And I had the time of my life.
In what universe is it acceptable to piss all over a public toilet seat and leave the mess for the next person to clean? Or worse — for someone to sit in? *shudder*
Curling into my chest,
she forms a comma
with her body...
The woman in the blue dress appears to move in slow motion, the crowd blurring around her. Her sensible but still flattering pumps, in a shade that precisely matches that of the dress, follow a straight path across the pavement.
Scratch that.