Published Short Stories, Essays, Poetry, and etc.

Exit Interview

The room is white in a way that feels intentional. Not sterile. Manufactured. A white that hums softly beneath the surface. It has no corners, no clock. Just a smooth table and two chairs. One of them is already occupied.         The man sitting across from me wears a dark suit and no expression. His eyes are the exact color of boiled water. His tie is slightly askew.         “Ms. Collins,” he says.         “Yes?” My voice comes out hoarse. I haven’t used it in a while. Or maybe I’ve...

The Tilt-a-Whirl Knows My Name

Ferris wheel turning. Slow. Too slow. Lights twitch on like startled eyes. Air thick with kettle corn sweetness. Grease cooling on metal. Burnt sugar clinging to the teeth. Beneath it, the taste of pennies left too long in the mouth. Pumpkins on the judging table. Collapsing inward. Flies tracing lazy circles. The judges gone but their fingerprints still dent the softened skin. Twilight seeps like water into wool. The sky flickers between wound and fire. Ticket in my palm. Tilt-a-Whirl. Paper warm. My mother once held one here. Same month. Same fairground. Her laugh always sharper in autumn, breaking into coughs she swore were from the cold.

Volcano

It started with a palm frond. One of those thick, green giants that fan out over Florida yards like they own the place. My Uncle Bob ripped one clean off the tree, held it high over his head, and marched barefoot around the pool. Jimmy Buffett’s “Volcano” blared from the lanai speakers, steel drums skipping over sun-soaked chaos. Kids doing cannonballs, adults sloshing bourbon in plastic cups, and bathing suits doubling as dinner clothes. He said nothing. Just grinned and kept moving. We followed. Every one of us. Cousins dripping pool water, aunts in cover-ups, and the dogs trotting at our heels, nails clicking on the pavement as if they were tap dancing. The conga line snaked through the screen door, into the kitchen, and around the card table stacked with paper plates and Publix potato salad. No one asked why.

The Taste of Absence

My father drank black Maxwell House from a repurposed Big Gulp cup, the kind with afaded NASCAR logo and a plastic straw he never used. Every morning, long before theworld stirred, he’d fill it to the brim and cradle it between his knees as he drove to work. No cream. No sugar. Just heat, grit, and something close to devotion. On weekends, he used the Grumpy mug I bought him when I was twelve. We were atDisney World, sweating through July, and I picked it out with the kind of glee only achild fee...

Reviews of New Food: Dr. Pepper Blackberry

It’s 1:17 a.m., and I’m sitting on the floor of my kitchen drinking Dr Pepper Blackberry out of the can like it’s medicine for a heartbreak I haven’t earned yet. I haven’t cried today, but I can feel it coming, crouched behind my molars. This beverage might be the gateway. The label promises “Delightfully Dark. Subtly Sweet,” which, coincidentally, is also how I described myself during a short-lived phase in college when I tried to brand myself as “the mysterious girl who reads Bukowski and wear...

Fed to the Gators

The crunching of crispy pine needles beneath my sneakers echoed among the trees. As I trekked through the small, wooded lot beside our home, my older sister, Donna, gripped the chains of her seat swing. She was completely oblivious to her surroundings, which included my random bursts of singing. Her legs dangled above the scuffed grass while she swayed back and forth. The Walkman cassette player clipped to her jeans pocket blared a Stevie Nicks song about white doves. Mom had instructed Donna to watch me that day while she worked yet another twelve-hour shift at Hollywood Memorial Hospital. Donna huffed and whined as usual. She claimed to have more important things to do than watch her obnoxious younger sister. “Mom, I’m almost twelve,” I said as my cheeks reddened from a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “I don’t need a babysitter!”

Drug Experiences | Readers Write

WHEN I WAS five years old, my elementary school held an assembly that included a special visitor, Harry the Habit Kicker. (Harry was actually our school resource officer in a giant bear costume.) He wore a shirt that read SAY NO TO DRUGS, and he carried a white bag with BAD STUFF scrawled across it. Harry demonstrated the consequences of drugs by placing the bag into his mouth. We all watched in horror as he jumped around, waving his fuzzy arms frantically, then fell to the floor, dead.

Chained to the Drift

It’s difficult to devote your life to a family that will never embrace you fully. Especially when your newly acquired family, by law, constantly expects utter devotion. Such was the case for Mrs. Mary Louise Elmwood, a young woman from a highly respected family in northern Alabama. It was a fine match; a proper combination between two well-off esteemed families. Mr. Robert Elmwood, although barely thirty, had already established quite the reputation for himself as a steadfast lawyer in the newly exquisite courthouse in downtown Athens. He was a ruthless lawyer in the courtroom, who never let any criminal walk away without some legal punishment. Some said those reprimands extended outside of those halls, and into the streets of downtown Athens. But Mary Louise didn’t partake in such rumors.

Weary Willie

There is a permanent imprint on memory when smoke infiltrates the senses. I was awaiting my cue with a few other clowns when the foul smell of burning canvas reached me. Dressed in oversized pants that were barely held up by my flimsy suspenders and an unshaven face covered in thick white paint, I called myself Weary Willie, a sad hobo clown with a permanent frown. I always got the short end of the stick, yet I never gave up. An important lesson my pa taught me and one in which I impressed on the children who came to the Ringling Circus. Had I known what was to occur that day, I wouldn’t have bothered plastering on my unhappy persona.

Laying Fallow

Within a small-scale labyrinth of untouched Florida, there exists a modest cemetery hidden by time and nature. The lush, wooded area, which once totally hid this tiny sliver of a sanctuary from view, was mostly chopped up and molded into an everyday American small-town neighborhood. House after house, built side by side, now surrounds what’s left of the natural land and the cemetery. As to why this sacred space was rendered, it's obvious to anyone who’s suffered from death’s unavoidable harvesting. It’s a place for those left behind in the fields, alone, who need to make sense of their loss. Shoddily gluing their million shards of grief into something resembling a whole heart.

Weary Willie

I was awaiting my cue, with a few other clowns, when the foul smell of burning canvas infiltrated my senses. Dressed in oversized pants barely held up by my flimsy suspenders and my unshaven face covered in thick white paint. I called myself Weary Willie, a sad hobo clown with a permanent frown. I always got the short end of the stick, yet I never gave up. An important lesson my pa taught me, and one which I impressed on the children who came to the Ringling Circus.

Every Other Word an F-Bomb: When Writers Mistake Profanity for Voice

I once participated in a collaborative writing exercise where we each contributed a short passage to build a shared story. The setting was the rural South in the early 1900s: dusty porches, hymnals, women stirring pots while watching the horizon for news. One writer turned in a single page that read like a drunk voicemail. Every other word was “fuck” or “shit.” The voice didn’t match the setting, didn’t reveal character, didn’t move the story. It broke the entire spell.

Open Letter to Beachgoers: Congratulations on 50 Years of Ignoring Obvious Shark Warnings by Bruce the Shark (Yes, I have a name—it’s Bruce. Look it up.) – Weekly Humorist

Dear Squishy Humans, It’s been fifty years. Half a century since I gave summer blockbusters teeth. Since I launched a thousand therapy sessions and got slapped with the blame for every panicked pool noodle incident from Malibu to Miami. Since I dragged a man backwards off a sinking boat and became the poster fish for “Do Not Enter the Water.” And yet, every July, you gather in droves, slather yourselves in coconut-scented marinade, and fling yourselves into my dining room like it’s Shark Week: U...

Are You My Mother?

“But in my postpartum life on a rainy December evening, compassion flowed into the recesses of my soul.” Struggling with a newfound role, a mother ponders how giving life has awakened her empathy towards the suffering, and allowed a realization of what true love is… “Please don’t be dead,” I said, as I scampered towards the frail body resting by the side of the road. Having just swerved into a sharp U-turn, my tires squealed in protest as I slammed on the brakes. I hoped it wasn’t too late....

Scenes I Imagined While Bottle-Feeding the Baby at 2 A.M.

At 2 a.m., the world is quiet. Except in my head.The baby is squirming in my arms, sucking on a bottle like it personally offended her. Her tiny fists keep punching the air with righteous fury. She’s got reflux, which means I have roughly twelve minutes before she projectile spits up half the bottle and all of her rage onto my last clean shirt.The toddler is snoring in the next room, clutching a plastic carrot and dreaming of something probably violent and produce-related. My husband is sleeping...
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