Nonfiction

When I was little, we lived in Philly. Seven hours from where we live now, eight counting the time allotted for rest stops. And a little ways down the sidewalk from our house was this tree.

I have this teacher...

This teacher is rude and sexist 

They get mad if you don't know the answer to something that they haven't explained yet...

They never get mad at certain students, they have favorites...

Have you ever met someone who truly feels like your other half? Who completes you? Not even romantically, I mean even a friend who mirrors your soul, reflecting back the sweetest parts. Well, I met one of these people last spring.

"Don't wait for permission to do something creative." - Ava DuVernay 

“Olivia!” 

“What?”

“It’s trash night, can you take it out?”

Silence, as I switched off my iPod, and listened.

“Olivia!” 

“What?”

I am tired. 

I am sad.

I am grouchy.

The long night that had occurred, only just hours ago, has left me restless.

And I, am not one to be restless.

this is not a poem. 

this is not a song.

this is not metaphor, a sonnet, an ode, not a ballad, a rant, not even a dream–

this is a plea. 

TITLE: Saudade

PROMPT: “Leave” (End with “And now I know why I can never leave”)

I always wanted a daily recess. Now that I finally had one, I didn’t want to go outside. Last summer, I moved to Vermont from Miami. Just like every book character, I’m the new kid. I love it.

I was anxious in theater class. I was talking at Wren, my theater friend of a couple months, blabbing tirelessly on about some kids' book I liked.

Camp was almost over for the summer. Kids were running around on the lawn, playing foursquare, swinging on the swings and building fairy houses.

When I was sixteen, I remember feeling nostalgic for things I hadn’t yet lost. Pure, raw adolescence.