These are a few of my stories. Most of them are old. Most of them are true. If you want to read more of that kind of thing, check out the storytelling category of the blog.

I've been told that my stories "resist" plotline. I think that was just a kind professor's way of saying that they suck, and have no point. But I'll let you be the judge of that.

Confession-"Only one time in my life have I wanted to be like someone so badly that I took pieces of them to try to do so."

Teacher-"None of my friends were fooled by my insistence that I was not flirting with him. But he never crossed the line. Even when he took me to the publication party of his ex-girlfriend's book, and I got drunk after I had a beer on an empty stomach. He took me, stumbling, into his home and fixed me coffee to drink. Then he showed me a poem on page 80 of the autographed copy of the exes book, that was about him."

Mosquito Bites-"Stephanie paid the taxi driver with what was left of her babysitting money and stepped into the desert heat. She couldn't believe that she had made it, that she had actually come all the way from La Habra to Las Vegas on her own bank roll, on her own guts."

Willie's Narrow Escape-"In the same way that an individual should sandwich a criticism between two compliments so as to not offend the offending party, Grimley Inc. used these meetings to subtly redirect the team of horses that made their carriage go. The rewards, the praise, the fettuccini-these were the blinders."

Sweet Bird, Empty Nest-"Loretta ran her hand over the cool tiles of her spotless, powder blue kitchen counter as she strode away from the refrigerator. But she stopped short of the doorway into the living room when she noticed the delicious pink birds on the counter."

The Sleepover-"I broke up with Noah for a reason, and that reason was that I wanted to sleep with other people. I didn't want to need them, or love them, or even really know them."

Worthless Sister-"These days, I think only of broken glass and screams. The street You might have died on. The closed casket at Your funeral. Somehow, I though You might be delicately preserved in death, your cheeks still blushing. Like Snow White in her glass coffin. But no prince will ever discover Your young ruined face six feet beneath the ground and magic-kiss you into existence again. There will be no tours of Europe. No bridal shower. No great American novel. Just someone that I knew long ago stuck in a grave with Her name on it."

Jessica R.-"Jessica Rodriguez in 4th grade spry and golden-voiced became a cheerleader after the audition I failed when a boot slipped out from under me and I fell. I still get mad and hot when I think about it. She won a prize at the speech tournament every year with the same poem about an inchworm."

This is My First Kiss-"Well, my first kiss was in 7th grade. I had read pretty much every Judy Blume book there was to be read, and was getting to that point in a pubescent girl's life when all she ever thinks about is acquiring that much treasured maiden smooch."

Adult-"I was remembering, about the job I had in Century City, on Avenue of the Stars-- where there are a lot of well-dressed people and I drove a VW Rabbit. I wrote descriptions of items up for auction over the internet: "Stunning solid 14kt gold wedding band, engraved 'Love You Always,'" and as I thought of that broken, loveless woman pawning the last evidence of her failed marriage, I'd almost cry. So, like I said, I worked with these well-dressed adults, commuting an hour each way because of traffic. I'd never commuted. I'd never worn a pantsuit. I'd never felt inferior, inadequate, slovenly, and deplorable. But now I did."