The first lesson I want to teach you is that it’s okay to be sensitive. I know mom says that it’s your worst trait, but I think it makes you strong.
Six months later, with a lump in her belly, she was on her way to California. When they arrived, they were met with the sea breeze and high tax rates. While she was out working, he was inside drinking, an unorthodox contortion of the American dream.
On my second day on the island, I was met with the extravagance of peacocks in my cousin Elisabeth’s kitchen.
The school bus halts at my stop. My cul-de-sac still out of view, I continue forward, listening to the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet, trying to forget the day I just had.
In this showcase, "Beyond Genesis," students from "Interartistic Genres: Beyond Adaption" were asked to present pieces from their autobiographical oeuvre drawing from Biblical prompts.
My little church in a tiny town in New England where the winters get so cold you can’t feel the hair on your head, and the summers get so hot you wish you didn’t have any, has a slanted roof.
This time, the flood deposits me at the foot of the Cailleach’s rock in Coulagh Bay. And I didn’t even see it coming.
I tried to unstick my body from itself, playing a game that no part of me could touch any other part.
"Depression seeps into your body and sits like a weight on your chest and your head, on every part of you—even the parts you’ve never known."