A sliver of sunshine lit up the hardwood floor of the cafe as a thirty-something brunette pushed open the door, dragging a laptop stroller behind. She was dressed in business clothes — crisply pleated dark trousers, a collared shirt and a navy blue blazer. She looked out of place in the hippy café with its multicolored chalkboard menu listings, ads plastered over the walls, and local paintings for sale exhibited all over the seating area.…
Writing
I have been writing all my life. Stories, poems, and essays. Scribbles in diaries, haiku games with friends and long, winded letters to loved ones. Every single time emotions overwhelmed the mind, my instinctive reaction was to pick up a pen and paper and just write. Falling in love, falling out of love, failing at work, getting promoted, family feuds, a show that I loved, a book I hated–all of it tumbling onto paper. And…
I step out from under the dirty brown awning of my three-story apartment building. The grey cracked concrete walkway to the street is littered with a soggy, muddy old copy of the Los Angeles Times, pages falling out of the flimsy string holding it together. An empty Starbucks plastic cup (tall) rolls over brightly printed car wash coupons, charred cigarette butts sneak from under the sun-baked yellow grass, dead bougainvillea flowers sit degenerating into pulp…
