Here you will find samples of longer pieces that I am continuing to work on!
“If it’s a story I’m telling, then I have control over the ending… But if it’s a story, even in my head, I must be telling it to someone. You don’t tell a story only to yourself. There’s always someone else. Even when there is no one.”
-Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale
Sample 8
Pumpkin Cat
For our purposes we will call her Jasmine. Of course she had no name, there had been no other cat that stayed around long enough to give her one. Her fur was dark and coarse, close to her skin, save the patches that fluffed out right before she lost them. She kept her nails sharp- most well raised cats do. But for her it was a matter of protection. Lately she had been finding herself out late alone, several nights in a row. There was no telling when she may run into a less friendly alley cat. She had not only herself to look after. Her womb was full with 4 kittens soon to be born- an unplanned consequence of one of the kinder but no less reckless alley cats. She would have preferred to stay in on these late nights especially as they grew colder. She would have preferred every night to lick her paws, light her sole candle, and curl up near the eye of her jack planter watching the children in the neighborhood make their ways home for supper. But the jack o lantern in which she lived had been discovered by squirrels. She had gone out one day to hunt down a plump, feisty meal, and upon her return had to shoo away 3 of the rodents which were nearly the same size as she. Now the jack o lantern wilted and stunk of the death she had so hoped to fend off if only to buy her some more time. Now it was nearing December. The sagging walls of the squash would never do to protect her children from the winter months.
Sample7
She sat in the grand back foyer. The bench with velvet pillows posed prettily behind her. But on the cool tile floor her legs crossed under her skirt, which sprawled around her in a manner that better suited her. The wall across from her made entirely of glass with one of the massive doors propped open allowed the gentle afternoon sun and a late summer breeze to float through the room and tickle her skin. On the other side of the glass in the courtyard, her modest marble fountain trickled softly. The orange trees were covered in green fruit, as it was not yet the season. Her husband perched on an iron bench next to the fountain and ventured to sketch the yardbirds that landed about him. She smiled softly, knowing she would be singing his praises (despite their disproportionate characteristics) so as not to discourage him from the latest hobby he took up with such fervor.
