Snapshots of Lovelessness

Picture this: I’m sitting at a table just outside the action in a bar in Darling Harbour, drunk on one too-expensive vodka soda and one-too-many cups of pregame goon. My head’s spinning. I rest it on my hand to prevent it from swiveling off my neck.

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Sunday Photo Fiction: Surveillance

Old Crazy was a fixture of Liberty Park, a landmark as recognizable and immutable as the mermaid fountain in the square.

“They’re watching,” he’d say with faraway eyes and a discordant tone of immediacy.

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Getting to Know Me

When my non-depressed self comes back into my life as if nothing has happened, it feels disingenuous. She tries to connect with me by asking me playful questions like, “So, how’s the love life?” It’s a universal icebreaker, a way for her to learn something juicy about my life. But the appropriate response doesn’t exist for a person whose romantic undertakings have been abysmal. The dating pool is bleak enough to depress a normal person and dating while depressed is another enterprise altogether.

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Sunday Photo Fiction: Greenhouse Effect

“Look at his green dress!” Ava says, shoving the coloring book toward her grandma.

“Her green dress,” Mary says, inspecting the leaves of a raspberry plant with knobby fingers.

I shoot my mother a look.

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Sunday Photo Fiction: Smokey Bears

We’re thirteen years old and about to smoke pot for the first time. We’re at my house because the woods in my backyard stretch for acres, uninterrupted. The same woods where we learned how to build a campfire in Cub Scouts all those years ago.

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In Defense of the Dog

Regardless of the reason for doing it, killing the dog in the story feels like a cheap emotional ploy. I think it’s a common trap for new writers to fall into because we learn pretty quickly that “happy” stories are boring and even a little juvenile. Killing the dog is an easy way to impose grief on a reader because virtually everyone likes dogs.

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Sunday Photo Fiction: The Rocklings

It was the responsibility of the women in my family to feed the Rocklings, which were contentious, antagonistic creatures, according to my grandmother. They used to bang on their drums and march down from the mountain to plunder our village.

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Before this, I’m lonely.

She radiates heat. She’s half asleep, but I part her cracked lips with mine.

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18 Things I Learned My Freshman Year of College

When I first started college I found the whole experience somewhat perplexing. How do I keep up with all the coursework? How do I pretend to look interested in football? What even is a Student Union??? I attempted to track my progress throughout the year by listing my newfound knowledge in a Word document.

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Tree Climbing

grandma mends my sleeve
and soon my knotty willow
is only a stump

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