Bathing Suits

Short Stories


Short stories: William Henry Harrison's term as president. My grandmother's patience. The Golden, Roaring (20)20s. Brownies, fresh from the oven. The Russian Democratic Federative Republic. Northern Virginia traffic (ha- just kidding). Goldfish. Me, holding a grudge. White t-shirts. Fresh strawberries. Women's deodorant in summer. A Size Two saxophone reed. Wearing a size two (adults past 30, you get it). Clean laundry (please explain how I wear that many clothes). Clean breath. Most friendships. Men in the bathroom. The history of piccolo solos. Substitute teachers who pronounce every name correctly. A kid's favorite color. Or favorite movie. Or favorite anything. Carly Rae Jepson's singing career. Dexy's Midnight Runner's singing career, for that matter. Not to mention A-ha's. Paper straws that aren't soggy. A race with Usain Bolt.

Peter's Peter


I saw London; / I saw France; / I saw Peter's / underpants. To set the scene: I'm sitting in bed, slumped over my computer, the professor raving about feminism in literature... when, without warning or prefix, Peter's screen tips forward, showing the bottom half of his red t-shirt... and his earl gray boxer briefs. This alone would've been rather funny, but the appalled look on Nathan's face--picture a curled lip, scrunched nose, and squinted eyes--left me howling. Not to mention Beheshteh's, which screamed, "I see nothing! I see nothing!" And then came the stinger: Peter's hand shifted to his lower back, sliding underneath his underwear to do what looked like a very dignified ass scratch. But it wasn't dignified because, poor Peter, unbeknownst to him, was being broadcast in all his itchy glory. Still yet, he saved the best for last, at which point his hand followed the curve of his hip to his crotch; there, doing God-knows-what (although probably alleviating another pesky itch), the camera filmed Peter's hand-in-groin action for nearly thirty seconds. My eyes flicked between his unfortunate scratch scene and Nathan's poorly concealed nausea, unable to pick just one to watch. That is, until Peter realized his phone angle and resituated the thing, completely unperturbed. Thank God my camera and microphone were off, because, Peter, I wasn't able to contain my hysterics. To quote my mom, Poor Peter, scratching his Peter.

Swimsuits Hanging

Good News Daily


I'm resolved to start my own newspaper. I'll call it "Good News Daily" and only issue pieces recounting the day's greatest happinesses. Today's articles, so far, are thrilling.

Frozen Pizza Cooked to Perfection. Greasy Hair Turned to Sleek Ponytail. Air Conditioner Being Fixed. FRIDAY.

Phone Wallpaper Changed to Photo of Boyfriend on Beach. Boyfriend's Dog Featured in Picture. The Force is Strong with Freckles Today. Writing Assignment Well-Received. Cat = Especially Docile. Thunderstorm Coming. I Don't Care if Monday's Blue;

Tuesday's Gray and Wednesday too;

Thursday, I Don't Care about You;

It's Friday, I'm in Love (Do-do, Do-do, Do-do Do).

Fictional Newspaper Published.

Newspaper Publisher Thrilled.

I and My Annabel Lee


Take fifty-seven. And... action.

More times than I can count, I've sat down to write about my boyfriend. One was sickeningly sappy, wherein I compared myself to Humbert Humbert and explained the meaning of my boyfriend's name; another was the product of me trying too hard not to try too hard, complete with a Flat Stanley description of him; the rest, not worth mentioning. 

The thing is, some people love reading about love--I certainly do--but others find it trite and trying. So I'm seeking a happy medium, where I neither gush, nor brush past. Cutie-

We spent ten days at the beach house and, on our last morning, I

tried to quote a line for you, but couldn't remember the words.

This was that line:

"I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love--

   I and my Annabel Lee--"

We love with a love that's more than love, Micah, you and me.

(...Happy medium?)

See Cordell Here


I was browsing my phone the other night, coolly and without intent, when I came to a website: Immediately, I knew I wanted to do it, but at the same time that I never would... So I checked it out,

if only to satisfy my curiosity, looked through the people near me, read what

I could, and then saw the "poems" tab. I'm a writer- how could I resist?

I found Cordell.

He said, "What do you see when you see me?"
His poem wouldn't make it past an editor's desk, not unscathed

at best, but it made me pause. It isn't easy to make me pause.

He said, "What do you see?"

I looked at his photo, strong and smiling

and light. I read his note to readers.

"For the last time, what do you see when you see me?"

I thought, I see someone worth seeing.

Check out his work here.

Seasons in Wonderland


In this brief work, my life is Wonderland– I, of course, am Alice.

My mother would play two parts in one, sewed back to back like

the doll of Coraline’s parents: more often, the White Queen;

but occasionally, too, the Queen of Hearts.

My father, as anyone who knows him would have guessed,

would play the Mad Hatter.

Which would make my stepmother, Patty, Mallymkun (the dormouse)

(but not the original literary version– the 2010 film version).

My friends and love don’t fit the same molds,

so I’ll make characters entirely their own.

Saige would be an Amazon–

tall and exotic upon approach, but warm as butter–

who hunted the kingdom’s traitors and cheats.

Andrea would be a butterfly roaming the gardens, a simple and

light beauty who kept the tempestuous flowers

from condemning new company.

Garielle would be the Blonde Rabbit,

the far more lovely counterpart of her white cousin,

who fluttered around Wonderland to deliver news and invitations to all.

Micah would be a character altogether different–

He’d be the beau who followed, ten steps behind, me

down the rabbit hole and across the kingdoms,

not entirely mad in his own right,

but mad for following (and encouraging) my own madness.

And I, of course, would be Alice.