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 …
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.