Trigger Warning: this article contains descriptions of sexual assault that may not be suitable for all readers. Fearless community, please read with care.
“Why is there a condom on the ground?” I asked, eyes swollen, my first hangover pounding.
“Because we fucked,” Danny matter-of-factly replied, with a smirk.
In the kitchen, I could hear Nicole cleaning up crushed cans of Natty Lite and red Solo cups with remnants of last night’s debauchery.
We had Nicole’s house to ourselves. Her parents were spending the night in the hospital. Her dad’s cancer required medical attention.
As responsible 16-year-old girls, we were trusted…
“Mommy, can we go to the beach?”
It wasn’t an unusual request, as we live in a beach town. But as the words left my son’s mouth, my body stiffened with hesitancy.
Ugh, it was the last thing I wanted to do.
I looked at his innocent face, his excited, blue eyes, and said, “Fine. But only for one hour.”
There’s always so much to do around the house. I really didn’t have the time.
Two words. That’s all it took — two words from a perfect stranger — to completely shift my perspective.
She emerged slowly out of the…
Oh yeah. That’s right. You can reread that title up there. Yes sir. As the Greatest Showman once proclaimed, “It starts tonight!”
I actually read somewhere that you can get sued as a writer for quoting song lyrics. Is that true? My most popular post on Medium has like twenty song lyrics so I should probably look into that.
Hey Emme, stay on task! They clicked because you were talking about the novel.
Oh right. The novel. Ahhhh, let me roll up my sleeves and explain how this sure-to-be-a-disaster came to be. . .
All aspiring writers dream of seeing…
December sucks. There I said it.
I mean, I like it. The magic that I create. The food that I cook. The family time that I coordinate. The gifts that I buy, wrap, hide, and return.
December was WAY more fun as a kid.
Because damn, there’s a lot of shit to do as an adult.
However, the Christmas card chore is never a dreaded one. Oh no, I make card addressing night a fucking event. I blast Christmas music to annoy my Jewish husband and grab a glass of wine, with a heavy pour. Just kidding. I polish off…
I started my own publication yesterday. On a whim. Just like that. Snap. Ping. Poof.
It was actually pretty fun. I’ve read all the articles about why you should start your own publication. And why you shouldn’t. But why you should. Shouldn’t. Should.
If that last paragraph made sense to you, you’ve read them too.
It was very impulsive, like most bad decisions are. But this one feels good. For now. I’ll probably lose steam and forget about it by February and leave it to die like I do with my most of my dreams, fitness apps, and house plants.
They say all great ideas are jotted down on cocktail napkins. Or on crumpled-up pieces of scrap paper plucked out of the trash.
J.K Rowling apparently wrote an idea on an airplane barf bag. Was it empty? That’s not the point.
One idea. Just that one idea. If not recorded would flutter out of the mind never to return. Peace, see ya.
Sometimes the idea returns. But it’s not the same. It’s never in that perfection, never in that exact moment of brilliance.
This shit happens to me daily. I have an ah-ha moment. The next viral article. The next…
It was just a choice. It was my right. It was legal and safe. Women do it every day. Easy peasy.
Yet, it landed me in the darkest, most unexpected, despair I’ve ever known.
I had never really thought about whether I considered myself pro-life or pro-choice. I didn’t judge women either way. I could see both sides. I was just thankful that I had made it through high school and college without having to make that decision.
Then, there I was. In my 20’s. Staring at the two lines. Well, wait, one line is very faint. Maybe I’m not…
Prospective Employer: Hi Emme. Thank you for coming. (Extends hand).
Me: (steps back, skeptical) Wait, is this a greeting or a hook-up?*
Prospective Employer: Well, uh (takes hand away) umm, it was a greeting. (checks iPhone for no reason) Anyway, please take a seat (gestures toward chair). So, before we get into details about the position, I must ask you if you’re employed anywhere else currently.
Me: Well, my husband pays me for sex.*
Prospective Employer: Oh. Okay. Wow. Um, that’s not exactly what I was asking, but great. That’s just — great. Poor guy. Moving on. …
I was grateful for the mask today when I bumped into you.
“It’s been a while, Beckett. How have you been?” you asked.
Knowing instantly, intimately, who the voice belonged to, I twisted my head in your direction.
Those eyes told me you were smiling. So was I.
“I’ve been okay. Great. Really great. Just looking for capers for a recipe,” I said. Why did I just say that?
Could you feel my nerves? The mask absorbed my deep exhale.
I straightened my legs to stand from the squat I was in. Two jars in my hands. You…
Driving my minivan down the highway, I overheard my ten-year-old son and his two teammates nervously chatting about the upcoming game.
I remained quiet. I always do. Driving carpool delivers invaluable parental insight.
“They’re going to kill us!” Chris said while picking a loose string from the hem of his jersey.
I’ll rip that string off for him before the game begins. It will distract him.
“I heard they beat Millersville 60–4. We’re going to get demolished,” Jack said, tapping his fingers anxiously against the basketball on his lap.
Have a little confidence, guys! Play your hardest and have fun.