Phone said 2:45pm. This means school is out, scream and shout. In case future daughter/granddaughter is reading this, a few things to note: all students wear tiny gray uniform skirt, boxers poke underneath.
“How am I supposed to connect to you, or anyone, if I don’t even know who I am!” I shouted as she slammed the door behind me. I left my girlfriend’s apartment in Spanish Harlem that rainy September night feeling strangely liberated.
Sitting on an airplane, suspended somewhere over the gulf of Mexico, I stared numbly at the shapes and shadows flitting over the eight-inch screen in front of me —one I had thoroughly disinfected with a Wet One®. I wondered, was …
Every day, we walk through the streets of New York. We are all caught up with our own lives and do not take the time to really look at what is going on around us.
In all my years of writing, this is what I’ve been told about short stories: They are about one thing, they are less complex than novels, and they are more of a precursor than a respected medium.
Fashion has become a way to wear a statement, and brands have decided to capitalize on stances against injustice to make money and secure their place on the imaginary wokeness scale of which the public seems so conscious.
