Very happy to report that Heartwood Literary Magazine published my short story "Saamiya" in a recent issue. "Saamiya" focuses on a depressed Muslim American teenager and her thoughts on the brave but fatal fate of Piggy from William Golding's "Lord of the Flies." I'd be delighted if you checked out my story and posted your thoughts below!

http://www.heartwoodlitmag.com/saamiya

#religion #highschool #angst #lordoftheflies #mythopoesis

The woman opens the balcony door and asks if I would like to go outside, but I don't like the noises, or how the sun scorches the carpet, or the smells which rise—smells like hot metal, flowers, petrol, mold, grass, rubber, sweat, and the wildcoats of animals. Into rich, odorous clothes I hide, or the crevice between the washer/dryer, or behind the box of Aquafinas in the pantry (I have long learned how to open the cabinet with a single claw). Why would they think I want to be a part of the world out there? Even my owners send me scurrying with their thunderous soles and blundering bodies and voices mean as dropped books (that is, when they're speaking to each other—they reserve sweet, strained noises for me). If I'm feeling brave (so rare, so rare) I might tiptoe across the balcony and look from the rail and tempt myself to go down. Sometimes I see cats slinking by blue wheels. They're not startled by the angry breaths of cars, but they hiss if a human comes close. The smells of these cats scare me most—smells of musk and might, of freedom and poetry.

#nonfiction #animalpov #cateyes

is the smell of sea on a day wet, the clouds unfurling like a rug released. The air pushes against your cheeks and whispers little things to make you sad, to make you want to toss behind half-skinned dreams to fling across fingers of foam.

holds back the light; defuses it; forgets it; fucks it; mixing ash and stone and dripping cords with trees of lightning, pillars of sun. These are the clouds that haunt the dead poets; the brushstrokes of sorrows. The lost boat carries the half-drowned and their hasty poems. The house holds the hill while pensive breaths peer for storm-sign, or a mirror.

is sudden and still until even the waves grow silent.

Two minutes to six and I can't ignore the heavy drops of rain tapping my car like a full set of fingers on a keyboard or God beating out a tune in a rhythm I'd have to be God to understand. These are taps I find more distracting then the velvet snores of my wife two minutes to midnight. This morning I am sleepless in Stafford. Last night I was sleepless, too, maybe because grading and lesson planning has me taking caffeine pills at 7 pm. Or maybe it's an anxiety leftover from Hurricane Harvey. We all seem to be shivering these days at every storm-sign. Fall's coming. Fall's here? Difficult to tell away from the screen of my phone and the expedited flings of a google search (Google: the best way to bing). Nor can I look to the skies or stars. Man peers down at the glowing milk of phones while the Milky Way hides behind fog and musk and must and smog. Houston doesn't do Fall right. We don't have the crooning red leaves swirling in ancient tempos or the yellow-orange bracken littering the floor like tossed invitations to some garbageborn small town venue. Houston is slimy year-round, the glitter dulled by knees of moss and Jurassic greens. Maybe the sunsets are a little more red when you're stuck in traffic, but how do you find the beauty when avoiding the Wheels and Winds and Waters? Now Houston rain isn't fingers—it's gray cement pouring against windshields. You can never really escape it, nor the feeling you're slowly falling out of love.

Recently had a digital magazine publish one of my sci-fi flashes (I'd call it speculative fiction but the abbreviation spec-fic sounds kind of racist). Theme of Absence publishes horror, fantasy, or spec-fic (weird, right?) on Fridays, sometimes with an author interview. "The Spheres" is my comedic take on extraterrestrial nihilism.

http://www.themeofabsence.com/2017/09/spheres-by-desmond-white/

Sometimes I'll see a student staring out the window at the end of the hall. But what does she see out there that holds her attention? I know from experience there's only a gray lot of teacher's cars, the track field, a tennis court hidden by a blue wall—all of it yellow and hazy from the sun slapping against the dust on the glass. But I don't think she's looking at anything in particular. Maybe it's a mood she senses on the other side of the pane. Behind her, white walls slide into a maze of lockers and locked doors guarded by a panopticon of ceiling cameras and teacher lounges. But out there are streets and side-streets and green, green grass and the bayous that interlace Houston like little green veins, and beyond the red roofs of the suburbs are patches of green trees binding shadow-flooded marshes and the homes of alligators.

Sometimes I think I know what she sees.

P.S. 67 elementary school was set in the middle of what used to be a corn field.  It was your typical non descript elementary school with huge play ground in the back.  Next to it, the park district purchased the land and turned it into a park.  So the kids could play on the equipment in back of the school or they could go to the park.  But the way the land was, there was a big hill at the edge of the park.  

At the edge of a park was an old tree, had to be at least a hundred years old, when I was a kid.  But back then, it was where they found Annie Hubbard.  She was found mutilated under that tree.  A couple walking their dog, found her on an early Sunday morning.  She was missing three days before when she was out looking for acorns for her 6th grade science fair project.  Her parents reported her missing by 7pm and the police were out searching for her.

Tommy Hubbard, who we hung around with, wasn't the same after they found his sister.

"Come on Tommy let's go play on the hill." We asked.  He always turned us down.  We didn't know till later of course, when we got older and figured out what happened.  Our parents kept that stuff from us, not like now, where every kid has the news before their parents do.

The neighborhood kids, always, avoid that tree.  Not because of anything that happened

recently.  But because a sweet little girl, looking for acorns, was murdered by a serial killer.

40 years later, they still avoid it.

Will I lose it all

These moments of clarity

When my demons come?

It’s interesting how time slows when you pay attention to it. A hum of applause radiates in the background as I make my way to the stage. Glancing down at my Ralph Lauren silk dress, a deep royal blue to match the hue of my eyes, I count the seconds as I walk up the stairs. One, two, three, four. I look up and stare into the eyes of the presenter, who greets me with one of the most genuine smiles I’ve ever been blessed to see and a cheerful, “Congratulations! You deserve this award more than anyone I know.” She doesn’t know what I’m about to do. I treasure the look on her face, so contagious you can’t help but feel a warmth inside your soul. It’s probably the last time I will see that genuine smile again.

My assistant, God bless her, catches me at the stage’s curtain before I make my way to the podium, and hands me what I need. She has no idea how thankful I am to have her at that very moment. She will be my crutch. I almost feel sorry for what I’m about to put her through. God knows she is going to be working even more hours than she already puts in for me.

I take the package and make my way to the stage. Rachel looks at my side and her glance questions the light blue box, but she ignores her suspicions and gives me a reassuring smile before letting me pass with the award.

I don’t realize how much my hand trembles until I try to place the award on the podium. It takes two hands working together to accomplish the task. I fold apart my neatly prepared speech that I wrote a month ago, long before everything happened, and begin.

“Thank you, Rachel, and everyone here tonight who thought I was deserving of such a prestigious, honorable award.” Applause ensues. If only they knew.

“I can’t begin to tell you how humbled I am standing at this podium today. I was told the reason I am given the award this evening is because of how courageous and brave I have been throughout my work trying to bring awareness to the poverty in Haiti.”

For the first time since beginning my speech, I look up. I don’t see much as the spotlights are trained on my every moment; however, something, or someone, catches my eye. I see him. Not HIM, mind you, but his attorney. He is watching my every move, and I know that this speech I so carefully constructed a month ago is about to be torn to shreds by him in court next week.

“You know, I used to think the bravest thing I ever did was get on a plane to Haiti for the first time by myself. Everyone asked me, ‘Are you sure you want to go there alone?’ ‘Do you know how bad it is there?’ I did realize the potential dangers, but I was also asked those questions when I traveled to Los Angeles. I figured that many times, people are usually afraid of what they do not know; what they do not understand.”

I take a deep breath and hold up the light blue package. “Some of you may have noticed that I brought this little package onstage with me. I must thank Leslie, my dear assistant and friend, for taking this last-minute request from me. Unfortunately, she will probably regret that after this evening is through. I came here tonight thinking this was a night I could escape, but if I have learned anything, it is that you don’t escape from domestic violence gracefully. You never can. If it was that easy, more wives, girlfriends, daughters, and mothers would leave. I thought this evening would be focused on this award, not the restraining order. But alas, the questions I received before taking this stand were regarding my face, my mannerisms, and the impending trial. You see, there is a man standing in this room who is watching this speech. He has seen me answer all the questions I received from the reporters while on the red carpet. He will take every answer I have given and will break them apart to be used against me in court next week. Every question asked of me will be mentioned in court. I know this because this is what I have learned throughout the course of this ordeal. So, if everything I am going to say is going to be torn apart anyways, I might as well say exactly what I want to say.”

I open the tab of the blue package and take a white, wet cloth. “For those of you who do not know, I began getting ready for this ceremony at 10:00 a.m. this morning. You may be thinking, ‘But the event didn’t begin until 8:00 p.m.’ I am fully aware of this; however, there were reasons. As you know from the police report that was released earlier this week, I sustained significant injuries from my soon-to-be ex-husband and was photographed to show the proof of the bruising. I thought to myself, ‘There, I did it. I showed the world what happened to me. Now, I can cover it up and enjoy an evening that is not about my relationship and abuse.’ Unfortunately, as many of you also know because I was asked these questions this evening, tonight was no longer about bringing attention to a cause near and dear to my heart. It was about my face, about my restraining order, and about my integrity and honesty. My integrity has never been in question to my face before; however, it is ironic that the physical abuse to my face is what caused my integrity to become in question. So, since my face is such a hot topic of discussion and cause for questioning my integrity, I would like to apologize to Angelica Simpson. For those of you who do not know her, she is my makeup artist, who came to my house at 10:00 a.m. and worked on my makeup for four hours figuring out a way to cover the hideous bruises the world has already seen because, apparently, since the world can no longer see them this evening, that means this must be a false claim I am making.”

I take the first cloth and wipe it across my brow. I rub it in full, wide circles, folding it to find a clean side and finish taking off the makeup to my brow. I hold it up to the audience and say, “Angelica, I thank you for the time and effort you put into to try and make me feel pretty again, to help try to make this evening more about my achievements than about my face. Unfortunately, we failed on that front.”

I take a second cloth. “The second person I would like to thank is Leslie. I know I thanked you before, but I want to thank you again for not blinking an eye when I told you to run to the pharmacy across the street and buy these cloths. You did it, knowing what I would do with them, and knowing how it would affect your job, and you still did it because you knew it was important to me. I cannot thank you enough for how much you have been my rock through this journey.” I rub the cloth across my right eye and right cheek. One swipe, fold, then swipe again. I know when the audience can begin to see the bruising on my right cheek because the murmuring and slow gasps start to seep through the white noise.

I take a third cloth. “The third and last person I would like to thank is my mother. Gwen, my dear mother, thank you for telling me I was making a mistake for coming forward. Thank you for telling me that the world would never believe me. Thank you for telling me I was destroying my career. Thank you for telling me that I would never work in this town again. Thank you for telling me I deserved the fallout from coming forward because it would mean you would not be able to have the monthly allowance I’ve given you. Thank you for telling me this was my fault, and that if I had just listened to him, this wouldn’t have happened.” With that, I run the cloth over one last time over my left eye. “I’ll need two cloths on this side since Lance’s fist made contact with both my eye and my cheek, so Angelica had to add more concealer to this side. Excuse me for a moment while I get another cloth.”

The murmurs continue as I wipe the cloth across my cheek. A huge gasp comes from someone in the front row, and many people begin talking as my bruises become more noticeable. I figure once the voices become louder that another cloth is not needed.

“I am receiving an award for bravery this evening. What better way to show bravery than to stand in front of my peers, my critics, my rivals and confidants, and the attorney for my soon-to-be-ex-husband, than to take away the concealer, the makeup, and actually accept this award as I am: a battered wife who is trying to seek justice in an unforgiving, judgmental society. Thank you.”

For the first time since I began wiping my makeup off, silence combs through the audience. I bow my head briefly in another silent node of thanks, and I hear applause to my left. The presenter is applauding me, with tears in her eyes and that genuine smile brighter than ever.