stories and articles by authors of all gender identities all over the world, shared every Thursday
I Meant To Tell You
To Be Woman
No Christmas Decorations
Signs the Night has Ended
“I graduated high school with this dude.” Jeff gestured at Tyler.
“We’re in love,” said Rhonda.
“You’re my Memaw!”
“So I can’t be in love?” asked Rhonda.
It wasn’t the last time she told me to be more “lady-like”. The phrase was scattered all over the summer; ladies don’t cannon ball into the pool or pump their fist with excitement. Ladies don’t let their hair get so frizzy or think farts are funny. I would always just laugh at her when she said those things, but I didn’t think it was funny at all. I thought maybe she was right.
“These are poinsettias,” he accused.
“Are they?” Franny asked, squinting at the little pot. “I thought they were hibiscus. No, they definitely are hibiscus.”
Moody set the tree down.
“Hibiscus.” Moody snorted in disbelief.
“Obviously. That’s self-evident. I could google a picture for you,” she added helpfully.
It was hot, the way the end of May can be sometimes, spring curdled into summer overnight. My thighs stuck together, that fat girl thigh sweat chafing as I walked home.
Sometimes the universe wants you to call it a night. It gives you a sign that the night is over, and you should head home. Sometimes that sign is incredibly obvious even in the moment, much less in retrospect. And sometimes you ignore that sign.
Weeks and Weeks
At the end of college, I was on the verge of insanity, working myself raw to try and create something marvelous and tragic. I was obsessed with dancing itself but also the idea of it ruining me, of putting my entire being into a performance. I wanted something beautiful worth dying for.