blog
Qs From a Human
Courageous Woman
My fifteen year old grandniece doesn't know how to read handwriting. I discovered this absurd fact last year and found myself inspired to write a short rant. This is an ode to the people who did not teach Ruby handwriting skills, and to a potential future that lives...
The Greys
Sierra heard there would be color on the other side, but she didn’t understand what that meant. She lived in the hills near Marcus and his people. She had met Marcus among the breezy trees that outlined a grassy path. It stretched between the base of the hills to the...
The Pearson Girls
Mama gave birth to us three girls in succession back in the day where men sat in waiting rooms with cigars, hoping for boys. Papa never got to hand out a single cigar because they gave up after me. But he didn’t care. “More cigars for me,” he said. My older sisters,...
The Rambler
The faded pink Ramble might have been built in 1958, but my young friends and I reaped the benefits of that old jalopy in the 70s. With Audrey at the wheel, the neighborhood kids, ages five to ten, often piled inside, sometimes squeezing twelve little bodies in every...
Sister
Forgive me for being prettier in your mind not mine and smarter not even on my best day for being born last and acting like I was not for breathing the air and looking at the world thru blue eyes for almost dying first and for not following your path of slurred words...
The Basement
Franki asked Ma the question nobody else would. “Why do all short people end up in the basement?” “Shh.” Ma pointed upward. Franki saw nothing but blue sky and glorious clouds floating above. She breathed in the odor of freshly cut grass. Skipped along the gravel...
Sunset Beach
Seagulls dive headfirst into the Pacific Ocean, a violent yet beautiful acrobatic show. Where the sky touches the sea, an island appears to float, a barrier between air and water barely visible through smog. I sit outside on the balcony with a hot cup of coffee,...
Lights Off
The boxy Dodge Colt I permanently borrowed from Dad had decided to stall, often. Stop at a red light or press the brakes—stall. “Alternator,” Dad mumbled into the phone. “Or spark plugs. Bring it by. I’ll take a look.” At twenty years old, I needed wheels for college...
Art for the Soul
I’ve been saving recordings on my iPhone voicemail for the last decade. I keep both of my parent’s voices and swap out old for new so I don’t fill up the memory. I wonder about the day I will wish I’d saved them all. My parents are both in their 80s. Mom’s an artist...