Creative Writing Stories


Listening as best I can to the teacher’s tense voice while studying her shadowed, sunken eyes, I fancy I glimpse the outline of my own profile being penciled into a sketchbook, but purposely don’t look any closer, or ask for clarification.

We rotate desks to face each other in groups. You sit still, staring at me brazenly for an oddly long ten seconds before I finally return the rather impudent gaze and ask, reddening, “What?”

“I haven’t seen your face from the front before,” you say, and I guess I can’t contest that.


I’ve been reminded

If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen it:

What pushes my eyebrows together;

What clutches at my heart and mind.

If you’ve heard me, you’ve heard it:

What looks like silence or empty sound, but is words turned inward,

And I unknowingly wish ill for myself.

I know God, and I’d never think to extinguish this –

Yet, I forget vigilance, and the dark swallows my light, since it cannot have me.

If you’ve known me, you’ve known it,

And if you’ve felt me, you’ve felt it,

And now, I see it, hear it, know it, and feel it –

Please, remind me of goodness and of pastimes

In a form that I can revel in –

That I’ll preserve with present

And future joy.

Thoughts and Entries

Peers with Children

I was looking through my year-book from fourth grade, and suddenly realized how seriously I viewed my fellow classmates’ personalities as well as my own at that age.

I have kind of forgotten how equally real other people were to me when I was young. For some reason this thought surprises me. Have I started to think that children do not have as much serious self-consciousness as adults? Because I know this is not true, especially when I bring myself back into memories I had from those elementary school years.

There were people my age I was drawn to, people I rather disliked, people I felt shy around, and people I wished to be closer to, or felt slighted by. These were people who had deep wishes and solid personalities, with a very real sense of the world.

Why does this feel like a revelation? If I have managed to, either drastically or slightly, de-personalize children younger than me, I must urgently resensitize myself to that precious, equally human mindset and existence.


A Love Letter to the Metropolitan Museum of Art

Within your walls, I’ve gone on countless wanderings. At your doors, I’ve met both family and dear friends. Is it lonely, with your halls empty, only sometimes echoing with the clicking of guards’ heels on the floor?

Your stone steps I’ve climbed dozens of times, your tall, wide halls I’ve passed through on countless occasions. As I wove my way among your statues, I grew in height, even in intellect (supposedly), and recorded my experience of your reality through pencil and camera.

Now there is nobody to witness golden Diana deftly drawing her arrow, no one to shiver at the Aztec knives and grotesquely exaggerated Oceanic sculpture. Nobody is peering into the eyes of the dead that lay in their sarcophagi, the bodies carved into wood and stone.

The outline of your Evening I have traced multiple times in pencil into sketchbooks. Now, her soft form I had once shaded goes unseen – she shields her face only from eyes of marble and bronze.

Is there no music anymore? I would imagine that the saxophone player can no longer come to your steps, playing and dancing like he did before. Where dozens of languages were spoken everyday, now there are none at all. Orchestras no longer gather on your balcony. Dancing, laughter, everything is gone.

Everything is gone.

I have only lived a fraction of your lifetime. As I grow and shrink, your pharaohs and knights will remain poised, your painted girls will still blush, and your martyrs will continue to bleed in eternal blessing.

The face of God hangs on hundreds of your walls, his glorious works you hold on display. Can I see them like that once again?

Favorites Poetry

Near North

I want to encircle a house with flowers,

With vines and shrubs that cast dappled shadows on painted, flaking sideboard;

To look up at night and see stars, to feed birds that stop by in migration;

And as I lay awake, to hear the drumming hum of rain on the leaky attic roof.



Flowering pea vines

Entwining their trellis,

Clinging for dear life –

I stand nearby on steps of brick,

Unaware of future strife.

Holding a wooden cooking spoon all covered in brownie batter,

My eyes linger elsewhere;

My gaze transfixed;

The brownie batter


Sapphire is out today,

Out in her great green pasture;

She plods along grazing

But in my mind, she with her grey dappled flanks

Rising, gallops far away,

Considerably faster.

Sapphire rolling beneath a cobalt sky

Frosted with an English breeze

Will forever and throughout my life

Bring me to my knees.