Shattered glass litters the floor, and clumps of crab meat cling to the wall. Tattered rose petals wilt on the once golden carpet, a small fire from a fallen candelabra has scorched a tablecloth, and one solo black pump rests abandoned on the dance floor.
Police sirens blare, as the state troopers rush towards the scene.
No one could have predicted that this night, of all nights, would end in this epic chaos.
If only he was not a cheat, if only she did not love for money, if only everyone did as they were told, if only…
Harsh fumes from burnt snickerdoodle cookies engulfed the living room, but the fighting had finally stopped.
As I fight for fresh air in the smoky room, I stretch out my legs, cover myself in a fuzzy blanket, and slouch prostrate onto the living room couch.
Finally, a moment of peace.
The shouting picks up again.
The voices grow louder and louder.
Their bellowing voices shake the entire house.
Are you kidding me!
I tear off my blanket, launch myself onto my feet, and march towards the confrontation.
I have to play peacemaker before they rip…
I want to rip my fucking hair out!
A vanilla candle illuminates the beige walls of my bathroom as I stand on my furry blue bathmat lost in my own reflection.
I peer into my dark brown eyes. They glare back at me. Taunting me.
I look away and gaze at the stapled brown Sally’s beauty bag resting on top of the dirty marble sink.
I shift my focus back onto the mirror and examine myself.
Mirror mirror on the wall… why why why did I have to be cursed with this disgusting ratty orange hair?
The afternoon sun filters through the blinds as I lie sprawled out on my bare mattress with my sweaty torso sticking to its rough fabric.
My bedsheets had come undone from my mattress during my restless sleep and sat next to me crumpled in a ball.
Bored with nothing to do, I get lost in the texture of my blank white popcorn ceiling.
God, I hate my birthday.
I glance down at my phone and see a paragraph-long text from my mom.
I don’t even bother to read it, probably the same phony bullshit she sends every year.
With fumes of cheap beer hovering in the air, and music so loud you couldn’t hear your own thoughts, I sit fidgeting in the corner of the room on a janky couch, alone.
Until she catches my eye.
Her golden hair swings down her back in two French braids.
Groups of sweaty boys circulate around her, and I cannot stop staring at her mouth working a piece of bubble gum.
Lily Rose, the fantasy of each and every boy in southeastern Wis —
I think she saw me staring at her.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I probably look like…
Part I. Jane
With each agonizing step, blood seeps from my wound and trickles onto the dry dirt.
Come on Jane, it’s right there, maybe 50 more steps.
You’ve come this far.
Don’t stop now.
My torso burns and my legs nearly collapse from under me, but I lug myself forward until I reach the colossal barn door.
Using my last ounce of strength, I yank the rusty wood door sideways, and let my eyes adjust to the cavernous space, spot a storage room stocked with hay bales, and limp towards my makeshift bed for the night.
I choke on…
1. I lava you so much.
2. We are mint to be together.
As the writer of The Hand Maid’s Tale, Alias Grace, The Edible Woman, Surfacing, and many other literary masterpieces, Margaret Atwood has used her uncanny ability to delve into the oppression of women to develop an astounding collection of fictional literature.
Yet, as talented as Atwood is, she admits to doubting her own writing capabilities and her potential to succeed in the literary realm.
Here are some lessons from her ascent to superstardom.
While pursuing her master’s degree at Harvard, Atwood experienced the rampant sexism of what was at the time an elite sexist boy’s club.
Now, I know that…
Lost in my research, I lean forward hovering over mounds of data scattered across my desk.
As I complete my final calculations, my heart races.
"Oh my God. OH MY GOD!" I wail audibly.
No calm down. One final check, Walter, don't get ahead of yourself.
Sorting through papers, and recounting my findings aloud, I slowly whisper to myself, "The data clearly shows that the global temperatures for last summer are on average down 1.24 percent, for last fall, 2.49 percent, for winter 4.03 percent, for spring 8.09 percent, and for this summer 16. 25 percent. Not only…
After escaping the brutal conditions of Pol Pot’s communist Cambodia, Ted and Christy Ngoy defied the odds, became multi millionaire entrepreneurs, and lived happily ever after.
Until they lost it all.
Here are some lessons from the rise and fall of the Donut King and Queen, Ted and Christy Ngoy.
Before rising to success, Ted and Christy Ngoy came from the most dire of circumstances.
While working in Cambodia’s scorching hot rice fields, enslaved Cambodians like Ted and Christy were expected to work from 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. every single day without any breaks.
While recalling his experience, Ted…
Trying to make you feel something. Top writer in fiction.