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.


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.

On Macro Photography

This was for an assignment where we simply had to write a “short-short story.” When writing this and the piece on prose poems, I was having so much trouble getting my thoughts together, but I do like how this one turned out. One question I have is: am I telling too much at the end?

On Macro Photography

A young man sat in his study trying to write a story about something deep and philosophical. He had Nietzsche and Marx on his mind due to the gloomy political atmosphere that he couldn’t wrap his head around, but nothing made sense on the outside and inside. The enormity of the election in regards to how many people who voted for a billionaire con artist could only be explained through philosophy, he thought, but instead, he found himself sitting on his computer looking at macro pictures of all kinds of things like coins, flowers dipped in gold, nuts and bolts, a pile of cogs, and master locks. Before, the young man felt safe with the idea that our way of living could not survive, along with the idea that none of it mattered anyways. His passion to find something with their works to explain what was going on came to a sudden halt when he realized that he was approaching things from the wrong point of view. Picture after picture on the forum were macro shots. Everyone was showing off the new worlds they discovered, which were right under our noses the entire time and the answer to our calls for escape.

Background Noise

Here, I’m focusing on two specific things. The first is the sound of my lines. You should notice the alliteration throughout the piece, but hopefully not to the point where it takes away from the story itself. The second is looking at something from multiple perspectives. This story was written as a homework assignment for a “Tiny Text” class which focuses on flash fiction, ten-minute plays, prose poems, and all other short forms of literature.

Background Noise

Diana, despite having to dive headfirst into the dozens of papers that needed to be graded by Monday morning, woke up and went right to work with a big smile on her face. Diana was the disturbed individual you could find at the register of the grocery store whose attitude was never anything less than the happiest they had ever been. In fact, Diana worked at Doreen’s when she was in tenth grade with her best friend Diane, her next door neighbor, whose mom drove them to school every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, while Diana’s dad drove on Tuesday and Thursday. Diana had a carafe of cold-brewed dark roast coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts waiting for her in the kitchen. She went to the fridge and found the fruit salad one of her students’ mothers had given to her as a gift for helping Francesca with her French history class. Diana taught English, but she spent two semesters abroad in France while at St. Francis College.

After sitting down, feeling full and satisfied, energetic and ready to grade, she put The Beatles on Spotify and went right to Blackbird. Her father taught her the chords when she was in chorus so she could play guitar while she sang. She raised the volume but got herself distracted. She was happy she still remembered the chords and found the guitar her mother gave her as a graduation present, after receiving her teaching certification. She played and played until her fingers bled. Every song that came on brought back a happy memory. When she was on a roll, she couldn’t stop. But she soon realized what time it was and a panic ensued. It was Sunday night and the grades couldn’t wait any more than they already had. Plus, there was a lesson plan that needed to be made and approved by her mentoring teacher; it was a requirement for newly hired teachers fresh out of college. In a fit of panic, she decided a movie would be best and went to bed exhausted, her fingers sore and a smile on her face, happy she still remembered everything from when she was in high school, despite the tears pouring down her face.

The Dark, Lonely Coffee Shop

This is a short story piece where craft was more of the focus. I wanted to play around with anaphora, which is starting sentences with the same beginning repetitively. I also wanted to try out writing longer sentences. I really like how this story came out. I’m hoping to expand upon it one day so look out for it. Enjoy!

The Dark, Lonely Coffee Shop

In that dark, lonely coffee shop on the other side of town where few people thought to venture—mostly out of made up fear—sat a lonely, middle-aged man whose wife of twenty-two years had passed away prematurely, who had both moved to the neighborhood immediately after being married, before hard economic times and the rezoning of school districts sent their long-time friends, and neighbors, all white, running for Florida where they could retire early from their union jobs and enjoy the benefits they built up over the years without worrying about being taxed into oblivion, despite the fact that Florida’s Republican governor’s lack of approval for universal healthcare and desire to deny global climate change while denying the more frequent superstorms that were slowly, and surely, destroying the coast, where the majority of the sixty-five-and-up crowds, including the lonely, middle-aged man sitting in that dark, lonely coffee shop on the other side of town’s friends and former neighbors, lived.

In that dark, lonely coffee shop on the other side of town where few people thought to venture, the lonely, middle-aged man ordered a small coffee, dark and black, which reminded him of his late wife who had prematurely passed away while fighting cancer for over six years, who had always told him she believed that black coffee was the secret to her living and being able to fight for so long despite the circumstances, who ultimately passed away anyway, but the lonely, middle-aged man was unable to let go of those words because he knew, and was able to see, that his wife truly believed what she had said, that that cup of coffee held more weight than the chemo, which made her feel sicker, and the endless pills of various shapes, sizes and colors. In that dark, lonely coffee shop on the other side of town where few people thought to venture to, the lonely, middle-aged man was reading a folder given to him by the doctor about possible treatments that were all too familiar, but he read them as if it were the first time because a part of him still couldn’t believe that his late wife had actually passed away, and then instinctually ordered that small coffee, dark and black, knowing that there was no reason to rush back home because all of his friends and neighbors who had moved to Florida were still gone, and even if he had gone home to call them and inform them of the news, no one would come back to the old neighborhood because that fear they all shared still existed in their minds, and how would the lonely, middle-aged man whose late wife of twenty-two years find peace from anyone other than his late wife’s words and voice that always calmed him, like on those dark, lonely nights after his friends had run away to Florida?

Orion’s Belt

I’m beginning to get a nice stockpile of work for you all, provided you all still follow me. You’re still interested, right? I haven’t forgot about you. This is my last semester so it is constantly crunch time. My thesis is coming along nicely. I’m working on my first revision. In the coming days and weeks, I’ll have a good mix of short stories, poems, and microfiction for you all. To start, I have a small microfiction piece I came up with after reading some kind of article online. Hope you enjoy. Keep an eye out tomorrow for something new.

Orion’s Belt

Have you ever thought about the stars where their light finally reaches us, sometimes long after they’re already gone? Do they ever run out of light? Is there a known case where a well-known star ran out of light, vanished forever? What happens to its constellation? Does it disappear or could it create something new? Could you imagine Orion’s Belt without its center star? Would Orion notice he’s missing a belt buckle?