Creative Writing Archives

Airport Pick-Up

By : Emily Maker January 14, 2021 No Comment

I’m exhausted. Traveling for work can be fun, but really… it’s just long hours and shitty sleep. My return flight is landing and I can already smell my lady’s perfume. I miss her. My body misses her. The goal is to get off this plane and into her arms as quickly as possible. I keep this in mind when packing, so I always pack light, even for this two-week trip. I wrap up all the cords and miscellaneous stuff I tend to accumulate on trips. The seatbelt sign goes off and my ache for her grows just a bit. I stay seated and touch up my lipstick, and smooth my wild curls into some sort of shape while my fellow passengers jostle for position. They file past me, I collect

Autumn

By : Grace Hasson January 9, 2021 No Comment

I met her when her hair was dyed red. She wore a long brown coat and a black scarf. She was autumn in a person, and yet I wondered why she chilled me to my bones. Her kiss was soft but burnt. She tasted like ashes and danced like a blooming phoenix. I still remember her firestorm on the dance floor, and yet I wondered why I still find sparks on the back of my tongue at night. She wouldn’t have known love even if it pleaded with her as much as I did. She told me she dreamed of escape. Escaping her mother. Escaping her boyfriend. Escaping the natural brown of her hair and escaping the way the season in her head wouldn’t change. And yet I wondered why

Poems to Heal from Queer Trauma

By : Timothy Arliss OBrien January 8, 2021 No Comment

After coming out and leaving behind a terrible past of five years in electroshock, ex-gay therapy, I found a cathartic release in writing. I wrote my way through any time I had flashbacks of my traumatic experiences with the homophobia we know comes with religion. A few years into my writing journey I had processed the deepest of my pain, from my rage at the bible college who tortured me and then kicked me out and abandoned me, to the sorrow and deep hatred I had for not being good enough. The writing that I poured out saved me.I compiled my writing into a collection of poetry, Dear God I’m a Faggot (2019), and for every copy sold, I have donated 1$ to The Trevor Project, the 24/7 suicide lifeline

Liberated Love

By : Ashmi Singh January 7, 2021 No Comment

I used to get sick to my stomach whenever I heard her name or saw the back of someone’s head with curly black hair that the sun made brown. When I was younger, I had longed for a relationship. Me and another person, totally immersed in one another. I never thought about the wheel of fortune and the downfall of love. The loss of the honeymoon phase is bitter and sudden like the winter air on my face after leaving my mom’s house. I knew it was over before she said it. Before she was intimate with another girl on our bed. Before she had the cops send me to the psych ward, a $3,500 bill just for the ambulance ride. Before she drove away in her compact car barely

Yellow

By : Grace Hasson January 4, 2021 No Comment

Mae’s wife loves yellow roses. In fact, she loves the color yellow in all forms. The sweet scent of honeysuckle blesses her with a yellow glow from strolling through the woods. Mae’s wife talks to herself in the woods. Soon, she’ll talk to herself in the house, too. Every morning she swallows a spoonful of honey. “It’s good for you,” she insists, then giggles like a little girl. Mae buys yellow roses for every vase in the house. Yellow petals fall on pill bottles lined up like a parade. “Flowers are a gift to the home,” Mae says, and paints over the spots in the walls, and puts down rugs to hide the knots in the wooden floors. The smell of roses hugs the home year-round and when yellow flames

Lighthouse

By : Vanessa Tran January 4, 2021 No Comment

At that moment I was at peace in the center I was the eye of the storm Intrigued by your beacon of light The voyage to the lighthouse was treacherous Deep in the sea of chaos that haloed me Ambushed by all of your strife Only to discover that you weren’t my haven The calm after the storm made me see You were the downpour from the beginning I started to understand why storms were named after people. Did you enjoy this story? Subscribe to our weekly newsletter to find out when new stories are published. [hubspot portal="4679048" id="962ea2a6-7b06-442a-90fd-58a7c8a4ecc9" type="form"] Learn how to join our Writers Cohort here. Follow us:

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