So many boxes to unpack, just to find the few items that are no longer corporeally belonging to me. So many boxes, each one hiding a possible boobee prize. Is that how you spell boobee? No, well you get my drift. The wah-wah-wah-wah prize. The door that hides some bobbing exclamation marks and a derogatory smile for your efforts. Good luck? No. None for you. You can keep a balloon.
On Still Reading “Lost” by Amanda Palmer
I live in a halfway house. I cram my clothes and belongings into one half of a closet, get up everyday to write. My family is going to the beach, but halfway girls can’t check out of home for that long. I’ll sit and write daily, my laptop the tough surf I’m expecting. I’ll write and I’ll publish and I won’t edit. Or I will. Fuck you for asking me to edit. Go walk the beach.
On Being Lost and Reading “Lost” by Amanda Palmer
It’s almost Thanksgiving. Mom and I made some food together. If nothing else, I will eat cornbread stuffing and sweet potato casserole on Thanksgiving Day. This is sobriety time—I won’t, amazingly, be drunk in a bar or in a car parked in someone else’s driveway. I’ll be writing. And shoveling in stuffing and casserole. I wish I had more freedom, but I’m still opening boxes and I’m only halfway.
Alicia Cole lives and creates in Huntsville, AL, where she’s a writer, editor, and visual artist. She’s the Interviews Editor for Black Fox Literary Magazine and the Editor of Priestess & Hierophant Press. Her work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in Clockwise Cat and Love & Ensuing Madness. You can find more of her work at https://www.facebook.com/AliciaColewriter.