Condition, Rinse, Repeat

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So it usually goes like this:

You’re born. At some point between drooling down your chin and learning how to walk, you realize that there are people who are constantly around you and watching everything you do. Bigger people, sometimes meaner people that are always saying no and telling you what to do, or sometimes nicer people that still tell you no and tell you what to do, and you have to listen because they said so.

And then there are more people, and more places, bigger places, and you realize there are some people who don’t tell you what to do. Some of them ignore you and pretend you do not exist, or are outright mean because you’re small and they’re big. And at some point you realize that not everything revolves around you. In fact, a lot does not revolve around you, and the bigger you get, the more you realize that you are not, in fact, the center of the universe, and probably never were.

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Boobs, Language, Sociology, and Why They All Matter

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So…

I tend to remind people, constantly, and usually during arguments about social issues, that my bachelor’s degree and general interests lie in sociology, and that I have about ten years of social work experience working with people from all walks of life.

This isn’t me JUST feeling myself and parading around my credentials whenever I want. It’s partially that, but it’s also my attempt to remind people that reading about, studying, analyzing and dissecting social behavior is life. And I think, often, when we discuss politics, media, language, and even economics, we take sociology and social sciences for granted. Specifically with articles like this one.

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Anastasiia: Marco’s Assignment

She had not been an easy assignment. A party girl in her own right, she was the reason for Marco’s sleepless nights.

For the first few weeks she’d barely noticed him at all, but one mistake and her attention honed into him like a torpedo. He thought about that night so many times after, over and over, trying to find a way he could have avoided falling in love with her, but there was nothing he could do to change it.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

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Cherchez La Femme

I’ve been participating in some writer challenges lately. Last year I joined the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge and joined again this year. This is my first round submission. It’s highly competitive, but I have to say, I had a lot of fun writing it.

The Prompt:

Genre: Suspense

Location: A plastic surgery center

Object: A tire iron

Synopsis: Kathleen wants to catch her husband red-handed, but has she thought about what he wants? Read more…

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Steel Graves

I’ve been participating in some writer challenges lately. Last year I joined the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge and plan to participate this year. This is the second and last story from 2015. 

The Prompt: 

Genre: Mystery
Location: A junkyard
Object: A coupon

Synopsis: A man is missing and Richard Moore knows more than he is telling the police. But will he solve the mystery before they do?

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For Headache, Add Tequila

I’ve been participating in some writer challenges lately. Last year I joined the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge and plan to participate this year. This is the first story from 2015. 

The Prompt: 
Genre: Comedy
Location: Martial Arts Studio
Object: Paint Can

Synopsis: What happens when you mix a martial arts gym and an unlimited amount of alcohol in one night of celebration? For Carl, it’s a headache, that’s what.
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Stolen Moments

She rummages through old photographs while I stand over the stove, making dinner because she swears she can’t cook, so I cook instead.

“I can barely make white rice,” she claims all the time, a dammed lie we both know she loves to repeat. “It either comes out soggy or smoky. You don’t need that kind of instability in your life.”

The kitchen is hot and humid, and she swears she can feel her hair frizzing as we stand there. Still, she keeps coming back to talk to me, holding old pictures in one hand and a joint still burning in the other. I don’t complain, not caring that the smoke is going to set off the detectors again. In turn I keep asking her questions from a distance so that I can see her in front of me, not in pictures online.

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Why I Write

One morning when I was in the third grade, my mother and I were working our way down the stairs of our apartment building. We were living in the cold ass Bronx in a third-floor apartment, and while I had walked myself to school in Puerto Rico during the first and second grade, there was no way that was going to be a reality living in the Bronx in the early 90’s.

When we got downstairs, we stumbled across one of our first floor neighbors, a lady who was struggling to put her toddler in a stroller to take her son, who was about my age, to school as well. The moment my mother saw her she told the woman to stop. My mother explained that she was taking me to school as well, and that she was more than happy to take her son with us.

I’m pretty sure we had not met that woman before that moment, and in that moment, that woman could not have been more relieved. So every day for the remainder of our time in New York, if it was a school day, my mother was happy to do this lady the favor of escorting her son safely to school.

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