Jen Parkhill “JP”
Jen Parkhill “JP” is a first generation Cuban-American artist and proud member of the LGBTQIA+ community. Cat dad, writer, filmmaker, actor, friend, and graduate of the Tisch School of the Arts, NYU.
Hurling through time.
- Runner-Up in the Snafu Senryu Challenge
- Second Place in Next Great [American] Novel Challenge
Crying WolfSecond Place in Next Great [American] Novel Challenge
I stepped out of the coroner’s office and onto the sidewalk. Into the dark. Into the wind. October in the city of angels. Headlights bled by on the street, a bleach-like shock to my pupils. Wind kicked up soot from the gutter. I squinted. Turned my head so I wouldn’t taste it. My face felt swollen. The inside of my head, a deafening thud. An anchor sinking from ribs down into my gut.
- Runner-Up in the Short and Sweet Challenge
Meet Carnie. She’s a 28 year-old college freshman starting her life over after breaking up with her loser boyfriend and moving across the country to pursue her dream of an education in the arts at NYU. She’s spent a decade in the school of hard knocks in Hollywood pursuing a career as an actress and now she’s finally ready to grow up and learn to take herself seriously as a writer — The only trouble is she’ll be learning to write alongside 18 year olds virgins dripping with privilege, private school educations, are encyclopedias when it comes to greek mythology, can’t hold their liquor, are navigating their sexualities, and don’t know how to wash their own laundry. Will she find out she has more in common with these kids than she thinks???
The Way of the Range
“Why do you always wear black?” “I’m in mourning for my life.” —Masha The Seagull *** To be alive is to mourn. Beds where we once rested our heads, people we once rested beside, animals we’ve loved, family we’ve lost, our bodies. We mourn what has been, what can never be again, hopes dashed, love soured, spring flowers that cannot last. Some days I mourn my 20 year-old knees, my grandmother’s ability to drive a car after dark, cities where young love dripped from me, my child-feet standing on my father’s surfboard, his head still full of hair. Memory, a sweet grief, exquisite and excruciating.