Blue Purse

This is a quick, little piece based on an object we were given in class. I was given a small coin purse and came up with this. 

Blue Purse

If you stare long enough at the purse, you get lost in all the colors, the shapes. They’re round like eyeballs; they stare back at you; they draw you in like a black hole, except they’re bright and full of color. What have I done? What does it know, or have to offer me? Money, Stupid—if you’re lucky. It’s a purse, not a portal. But what about the space between and within? It’s your world. Everything you know, love, and desire is all held within. And it does draw you in; its beyond you.


Almost forgot to post a story tonight! Imagine that: one day into the streak and I fuck it up. Not this time, though!

This story, again, comes from class. Here, we were given a photocopied page of a weird book about songs people used to sing while working around the house. The first section of this story is an exact quote. The next two build off it. 


“I will sweep the floor,

Make it very clean;

Sweep behind the door

Till not a speck is seen.”


No one told me

That being a mother

Would involve turning my child

Into a slave, or singing stupid

Songs from from a stupid book,

But then again,

At least the floor is clean.


She said her mother sang these songs

While they used to clean

The dirty floors. “It was my only lasting

Memory of her,”

She said.

Where do they come up with this?

I’d rather cry alone upstairs,

Or sleep on the filthy floor,

Than sing another stupid line. 

Changing Names

I’m back–again. But with news! I am officially a Queens College MFA graduate. I can’t explain to you how happy it makes me to accomplish one of my many writing goals. For those of you who stuck around since the beginning of this blog, who know my story, thank you.

For those that don’t know, I’ll give you a crash course. When I first started this blog, I was just getting into writing. I didn’t take my first application and submission seriously because I didn’t know how competitive writing programs were. I thought I would have an advantage by knowing the director of the program, but I was actually making it tougher for myself. She knew what I was capable of, so she wanted to see how I could get even better. When I didn’t get accepted, I made the decision to double down on my writing and work twice as hard at getting into the program the following year. I accomplished that goal, and it felt so good telling people I finally got in. Now that I’m done, a year ahead of everyone I entered the program with, I feel humbled by everything I’ve learned. Now, I feel like I can begin my career as a writer.

So, what’s the point of all this? I have a lot of time on my hands to write while I try to find a job in the publishing field. I’m back to trying to write at least a short story a day. I have lots of pieces piled up from all my classes so I’m going to start with those.

This piece comes from a tiny text craft course. I don’t remember the prompt we were given, but I like the sound of the piece itself. My guess is that we were writing stories with one-sentence paragraphs. We were often given prompts from old, obscure books and magazines, or tiny objects and toys my professor brought into class. If I have the original prompt for any future story, I will write it or upload it to these posts. Enough of me. Here’s my story:

Changing Names

At one time, it was believed that to name a child after a living person meant death for one or the other.

I didn’t realize this when I named my son after myself.

I was so proud to give him my name because it took just as long for him to be conceived as me.

His mother, like my mother, blamed herself, while she was in labor for four days, to keep my spirits up.

I blamed myself for the same reasoning, that luck was never on my side.

We knew when he came—I had a feeling it would be a he—we would treat him like our miracle.

There was no explanation for his death, according to the doctors.

An orthodox Jew, who overheard me on the phone with my father, told me about the problem with my child’s name.

I treated luck like I treated horoscopes.

What would Freud think about this?

Holistic treatment for names should be the next big thing.


On My Father and On Happiness

Another small hint fiction and a slightly larger story for you. I feel bad for not posting another story yesterday, so I’ll catch up today.

On My Father

He loves peanut butter,
He loves chocolate,
But he hates Reese’s.

On Happiness

When you ache
From all the times you thought you’d fail
And you were sure it was over;
When you thought you were stuck,
And that someone pulls you up.

On Baseball

In honor of spring training and the weather being nicer, I’m posting a short story on baseball, titled: On Baseball. This is shorter than usual, so I might post something a little later on in the day. Stay tuned!

On Baseball

No one has enough time
To sit and watch
A newly installed clock
Behind home plate counts
It’s time to go.


Last week I had a pretty cool assignment that we all had to do in class: We were given pages from an old book filled with items that could be used for many things aside from their original purpose. We had to copy the language of the book and turn it into a quick, little story. I don’t know if my story has a plot–do stories need plots in order to be stories?–but I like how this came out regardless.

Here’s the page for inspiration:
I’m sure you could do this with any kind of dictionary-type book. These kinds of books are also good for erasures, which I will try to do at some point. But I plan on doing this exercise again when I’m feeling stuck.


What makes a newspaper a newspaper, and who gets to decide it is strictly for news? For example, Why are we allowing the government to bring us back to the dark ages, where news was mostly manufactured?–because a newspaper could be used for so much more, which includes: making balls for the playground; bedding for pets; twisting into rings and piled to support chunks of food wrapped in aluminum foil; book covers; making covers for shopping bags–the usual things that, in reality, are news for all of us, because who actually knew any of this before?

Crest Glide

This story comes from an in-class assignment where we were given random objects and were told to write a personal story about whatever we were given. I ended up with one of the more random objects: dental floss. This is a short-short story, which is fiction, but based heavily off my own experiences. Enjoy!

Crest Glide

It happened the other day when I woke u and finished brushing my teeth. There were no individual, single-use floss…things? what do you call those? in the cabinet.

I thought it was odd having to go back to such a primitive method of cleaning my teeth. What was more shocking was where the little container came from: a small-to-medium-sized drug store called Genovese on the corner of Hempstead Turnpike and Hicksville Road. A.C. Moore is now in its place.

My father used to take me there when he didn’t have much of a choice. He’d tell me If I bring you inside, we’re only going in and out. No treats; no can I have this or that. Got it? But I, of course, would ask for Airheads and gummy Coke bottles, and, of course, I was told no. I wondered if this container of floss was something he had bought, perhaps a message of some sort.

Whenever I flossed, I felt like I was on top of the world, actually following the dentist’s orders. When I opened the container, to set the tone for the rest of the day, the floss, having been sitting in the cabinet for at least twenty years, was undone and trapped inside.