I only knew your corpse.

The story of your life lay before me on the slab, your blood cold and your heart still, all that you were reduced to the flesh that people saw you for. Your hands were not the tools of beauty, the mechanism by which you imprinted yourself on the world and connected with others; they were a means to an end, evidence in a case, the mark others left upon you all that I cared to…

I used to work in a grocery store deli. Most of the customers would be regulars, coming daily to get the same half-pound portions of meats, cheeses, and salads. As time went on, you began to learn the little quirks for each one; Some were kind, some were funny, some were rude, but most were simply trying to get their food and go. Regardless, I was a part of their routine as much as they were a part of mine,…

Even the finest pies are the sum of their parts in the end. Crust and filling and love and warmth are all needy to bring their flaky goodness to life, to fill the air with senses of joy you can find nowhere else. One you bring a recipe to life, you invite a world of wonder beneath the crust, one capable of surprising and disgusting and delighting and affecting everyone willing to dig in in uniquely different ways.

To not…

The heat is on, the table is set, and the game, one so crushingly consequential, has begun.

It is consequential in how each action provokes a reaction, how everything stems as much from the procedure these characters adhere to as to the intensity of emotion that drives them to act.

Consequential in how you can trace the carnage of the story upwards like following the roots of a tree, each piece of collateral damage stemming from a very tangible seed…

In my senior year of high school, I entered a regional solo & ensemble competition.

I have always found joy in playing the tuba, but never from my technical ability on the instrument. I still fumble fingerings and hit sour tones with depressing ease, feeling a sense of inadequacy as soon as I step out of my comfort zone on the instrument. For the most part, I've managed to work around my frustrations; I can count the number of times I…

Every night, my parents would argue with each other.

I heard their anger, their fear, and their frustration seeping through my walls, crawling into my dreams and into my nightmares. They put on a brave face every day, but even as a child I knew something was wrong; they were deeply unhappy people, unhappy with life and unhappy with each other, and nothing could hide the pain in their eyes.

I hated my home. The pain, the misery, and the…