Portfolio

A collection of work to showcase my skill set.

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Published Work

Whoever Heard of a Barkeep Pirate?

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Writing Samples

Horror- Under the Knife

I lay on a table, a large light blinding me. I watch as it’s moved to get better angles of my flaws. Dr. Handler guides the nurse on where to place the light as he drags a marker across my face, under my eyes, around my lips. He circles my nose, and writes something beside it in the marker.

He directs a second nurse to snap photos, pointing to my imperfections. He directs me to turn my head, pushes my chin over when I don’t move my head fast enough, and I see him: my husband, Halston, reads one of the catalogues, his eyes darting up to me every once in a while before he flips a page.

He points out the various features on what must be a model to the third nurse.

She jots things down, meets my gaze and gives me a smile. It’s reassuring. It’s kind. It’s a stark reminder of why I’m here, who I am here for. Dr. Handler pushes my head back into place, peering head on into the light. I smile to myself, the sterile walls mean nothing when I remember I’m doing this all for him. For our sake.

Dr. Handler says something to me but I don’t quite hear.

“What?” I ask, giving him my full attention for the first time.

“Lift your top,” Dr. Handler says, tapping my stomach with the marker. I do as I’m told, feeling the marker etch across my breasts soon after.

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Nonfiction- Date in the Mirror

There’s something about getting a paper ticket that makes me want to start scrap-booking. I always feel like I should make use of them, or put them in a frame for keeping. I’m not particularly attached to these tickets, or the event I’ve gone to. But something about having them in hand makes me want to preserve them.

The tree went out of its way to die for this paper, it feels wasteful to just discard them. But I’m also not a scrap booker, I’m not sentimental enough for it. So instead, they sit at the bottom of one of my purses until I forget about them. I always find them six months later when I switch purses again among stray pennies and old receipts.

The tender nods in a direction I don’t follow and tells us to head to the downstairs theater. They say it like it’s obvious, that we’ll find it instantly, so I take it that it’ll be right in front of me. We step into the lobby, there’s a white man with a receding hairline and a bow tie–a bartender– giving half hearted smiles to the suited, greasy man in front of his bar.

There are two women behind him, chatting quietly to themselves, whispering small to avoid their voices bouncing off of the brick walls and high ceilings. The greasy man gives a thank you, lifting two cups, one of wine and one of beer, and turns to face Nas and I.

He eyes us and seems to tilt away in shame when it's clear we’ve noticed his glance, he swallows and ducks his head a bit in a quiet forgiveness. Lots of people like to apologize for having eyes.

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