Short Stories
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Hunger
When I saw the strings of chewed up spinach tangled in the shower drain my instinct of silence set in. My mind along with my body went numb. Wearing rubber gloves, I picked out the spinach, flushed it down the toilet, and scrubbed the tub clean – erasing all physical evidence of Sasha’s sorrow. Within a few hours Sasha’s sorrow was mine. At first, a quiet whimper emitted from my closed throat, followed by loose tears streaking down my face, then accompanied by uncontrollable wails that so frightened me that I tried to muffle my cries with a towel. As I sit on my couch about to lose myself in…
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Drunk with Love
Friday nights for most teenagers represents the beginning of an event called The Weekend. I’m not most teenagers. I choose my companions carefully. Depending on my mood, I either watch a sitcom or read Anne Tyler novels. “Oh, Grace, you’re so boring!” my best friend Farrah says, stretching the “boring” part. “Then why do you hang out with me?” I ask. “Because. You’re funny,” she says. “Oh, so I’m boring but funny at the same time?” “Uh huh.” “You’re not making any sense,” I say. Farrah tries to stifle a giggle. Her hazel eyes sparkle and crinkle at the corners. Her cheeks look like rosy dough. Gosh, I love her.…
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Close to You
I know you. I sit at the back of the class, my chin perched on my fists and drink in your every move. I memorize your profile. Etched in my mind is your Roman nose and your wispy eyelashes blinking against the sunlight. I marvel at the even distribution of golden hair on your perfectly proportioned legs and how your shoulder blades and spine stretch your white Vuarnet T-shirt. I envy the lock of wavy hair that cradles your left ear, knowing its smoothness. Are you nervous? You have a habit of tapping your feet and chewing on a blue PaperMate pen. I wish I were that pen. How could…
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My Love
In the morning your eyes pink from sleep gaze at me. Your long curly eyelashes surround a mystery – hazel windows to your soul. There is substance there, in your eyes – a depth I want to explore. You lean over for a kiss I’m hesitant to give. Morning breath, I explain. You don’t care. Your thin lips feel surprisingly full and soft on my mouth. They turn down at the corners – forever locked in sadness. On the night table stands a photograph of you as a boy. “This is the boy who will grow up to be the man I love,” I think. Your eyes so bright and…