Literary as hell.
children love riding them i am part of the game too
but i’m trying to be a bit more civil
i have a megalodon jaw but i only ever touch potato
we are devices that rotate like the hands of a clock
its face only as wide as earth i wonder if i will live long enough
to survive Continue reading
Galveston, 1942
“Four fours,” Zoe says softly, her voice insinuating that she’s lying. This is one of the problems with playing liar’s poker with Zoe; she always sounds like she’s making things up. She even looks like an actress, leaning on her elbow in her pink gingham halter and culottes, her eyes shrouded in sunglasses although the sun is setting.
Annie sighs. It’s still hot, and the humidity is so dense that the oleanders’ leaves are beaded with moisture. Annie holds her dollar bill hard against her chest. She knows the numbers and letters on the bill without looking. Zoe could be trying to peek, even though she has her head turned casually.
“Four fours. Are you asleep?”
Annie snores in response.
“Little red pig,” Zoe says, slapping at her. Zoe is probably faking. Or maybe she has two fours and assumes Annie has two. Annie does have two fours, and Zoe could know. Even without cheating. Continue reading
The snow lies
in tarnished piles
of moonlight
pushed aside from
sidewalk and step
you prepared this exit
light drowning from your window
leaving me to wander
the poor brick
of the neighbourhood
for all this uprooted winter
had I not been captive
to mysterious seductions
I might still walk lightly
on pure snow.
Left to right: Marie Lu, Nicola Yoon, Nic Stone, Kiersten White, M.J. Franklin
Sad you missed BookCon? Here are some more highlights! Check out more of our coverage here.
Fierce and Fabulous
“#1 asking for permission and #2 apologizing for taking up space. I’m not apologizing for taking up space anymore. My main fear for writing the two girls in this book is that I would make them too soft. I don’t want them to apologize for taking up space, I don’t want to subconsciously write female characters who are shy, who are soft, just because I’ve been taught that’s what women are supposed to be.” Nic Stone
Four years ago, the #WeNeedDiverseBooks movement was launched in response to an all-white lineup at Book Con. However, the industry still has a long way to come before true equality is reached. Four children’s authors gathered at Book Expo America on Thursday to talk about racism, politics, and books.
I grew to hate All-Ireland Sunday, keeping this torment concealed from my family. The day stiffened my resolve to leave Dublin after wasted college years. I went to flat parties with childhood friends and pale girls who rolled their eyes at my slurred advances. Now winter lingered, inducing darkened days that lead to early gatherings in pubs and late nights on the quays.
A taste of whiskey was lodged in my throat, the fetid sweat off a weekend binge bleeding into the walls. I forgot it was All-Ireland Sunday for a moment, although this business of Dublin versus Kerry soon flooded my consciousness. I reached across the bedside table for my watch, the hands on the dial approaching two p.m. Sundays had become an effort in killing time. Ashen clouds brushed the sky through a slit in the curtains. My mum had come in earlier to say she was going to my aunt’s house for the afternoon.
‘Try and at least drag yourself out of bed for the throw-in!’
About five years ago, I went to the mental hospital. I was going to hang myself. Just as I was choosing the rope, I experienced an epiphany. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, at least, not as good as I thought it was.
Springtime was on me. The season has always been difficult. As days get longer and the light more intense, I get more and more depressed. I find myself crying, seemingly just for the hell of it. Feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness grow. I stay in bed longer and sleep during odd times of the day. Fatigue plagues me.
Soon, usually by the beginning of March, the world looks and feels dead to me. I see the flowers and the trees busting into green. I hear the birds and see the rabbits. Beauty is all around and I have no connection to it. I isolate myself. Thoughts of suicide and of absconding from home haunt me. A pall hangs over me. I know I should be doing things but cannot find the energy or ambition to undertake them. All sounds are too loud. Activity around me, any activity, grates on me like sandpaper on raw nerves. Continue reading
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