I am a teacher with a passion for creative writing. My favorite genres to write are young adult, humor poetry, and memoir essays. Join me on my journey!
The Home Poem
“Home is where the heart is.” At least, that’s what they say. But my heart is in so many places it doesn’t know where to stay.
Why A Beach Chase is the Perfect Back-to-School Gift
One of the clearest memories I have from preschool was kneeling on the floor, the gray carpet creating indents in my knees. A jack-in-the-box sat on the floor in front of me. I'd seen the toy in some of my favorite cartoons and had never played with one before. I turned the handle slowly, careful not to distort the song.
How Cooking Lets Me Be an Imperfectionist
I am a perfectionist with almost everything I do. And while some might consider it my superpower, it gets exhausting. I constantly revise and rewrite drafts of pretty much all my writing. I only ever paint landscapes or flowers because I can never get noses right. Sometimes I even refold the laundry when my husband isn’t looking.
The hole was about two feet deep when Eva showed up, but Jane barely looked at her. Just kept on digging. They were as far behind Jane’s grandmother’s house as they could get, beneath a tree that was beginning to grow heavy with pears, its delicate pinkish petals still withering and rotting in the grass at its roots. If someone had tried to eat the unripe fruit, it would have been bland and hard, like wood chips. Despite the dimness, Eva could make out the patterns of deep bruises pressed into Jane’s throat and swelling her eye shut.
A Kingdom for Cake
Violet stared through the gap in the fence at her next-door neighbor. She couldn’t help it. Margot, who never let Violet forget that she was the oldest by eleven days, sat at her plastic table and chair beneath the shade of her treehouse. Despite the shade, Margot also wore a large sunhat, her cheeks smeared with sunscreen. But what held Violet’s intrigue was the enormous slice of chocolate cake on the table in front of Margot. Its frosting glistened in the sunlight that trickled through the leaves above.
Elegy of a Farmer's Daughter
Horse had been on the farm the longest, and so had known the Farmer’s daughter, little Fern, the best of all the animals. In all his years on the farm, he had seen many cows, chickens, and pigs come and go, gone to slaughter when they stopped producing milk, eggs, or young. And as soon as little Fern was old enough to know what that meant, as the only one around to advocate on their behalf, she had protested to her father not to kill the “cute hens” or “sweet piggies.” And she always did so, despite the loud crashes and weeping the animals would inevitably hear later that night after the axe was put away.
Caldo Verde (Green Broth)
My aunt didn’t speak any Portuguese when she visited Portugal for the first time. But, as someone who likes to keep busy, she helped her host with the cooking.
Entry 1 A dog barked. I crossed the rooftop in its direction, stepping over detritus that stirred lightly in the breeze and walking in a diagonal so I could look down different streets until I found the animal among the piles of refuse and corpses that lined the street. The bullets in my pocket clinked against each other as I lifted the sniper rifle, keeping my head as low as I could, and peered through the scope.