Most recently published stories in Confessions.
I was a senior in high school and it was a normal day. I ate breakfast with my friends and, with the ring of a bell, went to my first class. I was in the school band at the time, and had been for 7 years, so I knew every one of my fellow band members. Nothing really seemed off about Bobby.* He was a short, talkative, brunette sophomore who wore glasses and played the baritone. He didn’t have many friends, but he seemed used to it. We didn’t talk to each other very much, but he seemed like an okay kid. Band class went on like normal, with the regular life advice-filled speech by our band director and some additional comments by our other. At the end of class, I left the room with some of my peers and, like usual, held the door for the people behind me. Bobby usually smiled at me, but that day, he didn’t even look up at me. He just walked through the door and hurried away. I was a little bit concerned, but I didn’t think much of it and went on my way.
Who am I?
Writing to Heal Writing for me is a way of expressing myself. Having PTSD and the symptoms that follow it can be very lonely. I didn't see my first therapist until after my youngest son was born. So, writing was my way of coping with depression and anxiety. I wrote my first poem in English class when I was in the 5th grade. It had to with the blooming of a rose and love. The poem was so good that my teacher accused me of copying it out of a book. She told my mother that there was no way a child in special education classes could write a poem like that. That's when I discovered my love for writing. I was never one to keep a diary. I kept a folder with loose leaf paper in it. When I felt down or mad I would write everything I was feeling down. Afterward, I would walk down to the creek, rip the letter up into little pieces and drop them in the creek. It was like sending my worries to float away downstream. Writing is just a calming, therapeutic way to my world of peaceful bliss.
Are You Trapped In a Relationship With a Covert Narcissist?
Narcissists, the garden variety: loud, boisterous, and obvious, can be spotted a mile away. We see them coming and brace ourselves for the lies, manipulation, and embarrassingly vocal expressions of pomposity and putting others down. Their ego is worn on their sleeve with no hidden agenda. They will often brag about their conquests, and take pride in hurting others.
She is a Student Nurse, Businesswoman, Artist, and Survivor Of Police Brutality.
For Women’s History Month, I want to dedicate this story to a woman who inspires me to bow in prayer to honor God for bringing knowledge, health and purpose to my life. This woman is resilient, intelligent, bodacious, original, and inspirational. Her decision to live the good life is admirable. She survived police brutality in Hollywood, Florida, while studying for her nursing degree. With will and determination, she began a black-owned business while she recovered her mental and physical health in NYC.
Why do we eat?
The quick answer would be just to survive, if you do not eat, you die. But when we are devastated after a breakup, waiting for an email or a call from work, or for some test results and suddenly feel the urge to have a sugary snack, does our life depend on that?
How I got my stupid nickname
Many, many years ago, too long to try and do the math, I found myself oscillating between the excitement and apprehension of my final year at University.
Living Life by the Square Inch
I dream in inches. Eight more inches and I could open my bedroom door all the way. Six more inches up and another layer of bookcase will fit. And, oh please, I breathe, just 4 extra inches tall would open up a whole world of storage under the bed. Clearly, these are waking dreams. Daydreams, really.
The worst moment I have ever encountered
Only in our worst times can we see things clearly. When we hear that we are going down and we have nothing to lose, we realize that there are still important things to do. The only thing we have to say is that the decisions we make in the face of change are important.
Yes, I am writing about a manual, ribbon typewriter, made in Spain sometime in the 1970s or early 1980s that was small, compact, and blue. It did not look imposing; it did though forever put so many's thoughts onto paper for the world to see. Some of these words would get the attention of World Leaders and University Instructors.
The shit you find when you move.
My kid’s old tooth. I cannot believe I saved this shit. Of all the things she’s done over the years; cards, haircuts(some she’s done on her own), drawings…I come across this.
Screw Me Over
“I’d like to end my presentation with a quote from Toni Morrison. She said ‘The function of freedom is to free someone else.’ I believe that’s why it’s our obligation to educate instead of hate. We have to think about our future. If one doesn’t want to hear what you’re saying, they give up that chance for freedom and stay stuck in their own minds.”
Sofia Duarte's Awakening
This is my fiftieth story. We crossed paths, therefore I believe that I am missing a proper introduction: “Hi, there! My handle is Sofia Duarte, and I write for survival.” I could say. “My writing started in Portuguese when I needed to stay alive — I wanted to die so hard.”