There is a secret my mother keeps in the back of her closet; a box she opens whenever my father leaves for his numerous business meetings that we all know—even my ten-year-old brother—are about. Read more
She wasn’t any good at spying.
Ezra and Maryelis’s were the ones who excelled at deception, not little Cecily who tripped on air and preferred to write in her journal. If they hadn’t been in dire times, Maryelis would have taken this particular job, seeing as these were her friends. Read more
She was sitting in an alcove of Libby’s, her brown hair drawn back in a knot and her knees pulled up as she leaned on the glass panel at her side. Her sketchbook was resting on her knees as she took to work capturing the quiet street on the other side of the window. She was careful to leave out the moving people and cars. Read more
It began in high school with a brush of the shoulders, a mumbled sorry from her side and a laugh from Susan’s. Though they had kept walking in their own directions, Bernadette had glanced backward once. What she would always remember was the girls’ loose hair, not confined by a band or styled by society’s standards. No, they had been entirely themselves, and it had entranced her–still entranced her. From then, the desire to be like them took hold of her, became an obsession in itself. Read more
“Get away from him!” I shout, swatting at the group of boys with a slapdash paper sword. Read more
After a few minutes of riding, Layla stopped. Her hand hovered over her hair, right above where Okami had swept away some leaves. She fingered thoroughly through the strands and her scalp. No tracker. Maybe he had been a simple hiker. Read more
Layla Nasser was a clever little thing. Few ever noticed Okami skulking behind. Even fewer dared to call out the Big Bad Wolf instead of waiting for him to attack on his own. He was just a little bit frightened of her for challenging him so openly, but also a bit enraged that she would take him so lightly. Read more
Grandmother was ill.
Layla couldn’t believe that the resilient old woman would succumb to a cold. In her seventy years, Grandmother had survived starvation, poisoning, and a gunshot to the side. A cold couldn’t touch her, or at least it shouldn’t have. Read more