Brooke Duran

By: Virginia Allen “Oh Skittle, what will I ever do without you, sweetie?” Katrina inquired the old, orange cat sitting on the gray, ashy chair before her. Skittle’s tail flipped around like a snake as she quietly meowed. Katrina took a look around the crowded, dirty apartment as she sighed. The rooms were packed with boxes of filed photographs and broken objects. The place smelled and looked like a junkyard, it felt like a dank, dark cave where bears lived. The gloomy air fit it all, so did the orange cat hair that coated everything. Katrina blew the dust off French textbooks she rarely studied and dug into a cabinet full of McDonald’s coupons and pictures of Skittle when she was a kitten, she moved onto the next cabinet when what she needed wasn’t found, the teen threw out old clock with faded numbers, little jingo-jangos no one could name, and other things that reeked with age. When he delicate fingertips touched a broken piece of an antique plate, blood gushed out, streaming aro...

Write a story that begins and ends with someone looking up at the stars. I gazed upward at the humble night sky. One of the few things that I still enjoyed. I wonder what is up there. All my vain midnight dreams…All my dumb wishes…All my ignorant hopes. I let my sluggish head sink down to my hands rested on the dirty white windowsill doing anything but wondering themselves in a vulgar fantasy. I could just hear my dad, versing all my dreams scientifically. That starts were a lot more than a glance at a distant dream. They were galaxies, gatherings of gas much larger than our sun. Stupid. I was so stupid. But hey, a girl can dream, right? I won’t tell you my name, that only highlights it like the comet that I am names after. The comet that only is visible for a short time to a human’s naked eye from earth. It doesn’t even come that much to the humble, meek eye that often, twice in a lifetime, my astronomy teacher, Ms. Hashway always told me. I grinned as I thought of her funny, quirk...

by:Virginia Allen Finnegan fished through the coins in his pocket to find the largest one, a shiny red quarter with the year 1996 stamped on it. He grasped it out to the man before him. “Heads, I murder you,” he started his deal. “Tails, I give you the gamble to flee before I kill you.” The man quivered. “You know, it doesn’t have to be this way.” “Be quiet!” Finnegan swung the butt of the gun against the man’s right temple, knocking him out. He set the gun on the table behind him and returned his attention to the coin. He tossed it midair and let it fall back to the floor. He bent down to get a closer look at George Washington’s profile staring back up back at him. Finnegan grinned, satisfied. He handpicked the gun again and held it to the man’s head, his finger resting on the trigger, ready to release. “It’s all over,” he said bluntly. “Don’t prepare for that.” The voice belonged to a female who was lying in a grave because of the man in the seat. Finnegan turned, taking in t...

I still remember that dismal dream. It was the strangest that I had had yet, and that is saying something, since I am the ripe, old age of 60 and hold a strangely lengthened dream memory. At least that was what my husband, Anders Sleigh told me while we were both still alive, God rest his soul. I still remember the very first dream I had, on my fourth birthday, down to the dot (March 20, 1965 was the day, if you happen to be a mathematician who wishes to know), the first thing about the dream was that it smelled of pink cotton candy and was full of a make-believe cast, with characters such as Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile from the classic book written by Bernard Waber of the mouse from another book written by Beverly Cleary. They were all sociable, and I was taller and larger than them in every way because of how close I was to my fourth age. When I would learn how to read later that year, who knew what books I would invest myself in the storylines of? I would put away the Fox in the Socks cre...

Heartbreak Island By Virginia Allen “Great Grandma is here, Great Grandma is here!” Lucas and Louise hollered when they saw old Ann Baliff’s silhouette through the taxi cab window; it reminded them of black ice. Even though she was 100, Ann needed no help getting out of the maize colored cab. Ann was ecstatic to be at her great grandchildren’s house. Her feet crunched the leaves on the ground while she gradually walked towards the giant, but friendly looking house. Ann lifted and dropped the lacteous knocker. When the door opened, she was welcomed by the smiling face of Lilly Baliff. Somewhere in the house, you could hear little feet hastening to get to the entryway. “Stop tripping me, Lucas!” someone shrieked after a great crash. Seconds later, Lucas Baliff entered and panted, “Louise knocked over the lamp and broke it, on purpose!” Louise stomped in and denounced, “You better run, you weasel!” Lucas did his chortle of confidence, ...

Throughout her experience with homelessness, Gloria learned an important lesson: you must be able to humble yourself. Gloria came to Atlanta Mission’s overnight shelter “Home Sweet Home” looking for answers—she had been a hard worker all her life, she also was determined, but she just hadn’t been able to take that next step in her journey to ending her story of sad homelessness. The team at Home Sweet Home works and worked together with each woman and child to address their unique and specific needs. Ultimately, for women like Gloria, the goal is to find a job that will provide a sustainable income that eventually leads to a humble housing. She says she was at Home Sweet Home for about two and a half years, and while at the shelter she joined the Atlanta Mission @Work program. Atlanta Mission @Work is an extension of Atlanta Mission that specializes specifically in workforce development for clients who are ready to take the next step in their journey of ending homelessness. The pro...

By: Virginia Allen The woman sitting down at the desk could have certainly had a better day. She pushed her large, black-rimmed glasses up her too flat nose once again (she had already repeated the action about a dozen to a million times; she had lost count long ago) as if that would help clear her mind, or fill it full of ideas, more like. She could have been doing about a million things, other than grow ditzy with her blank canvas of a mind, the more you observed her. She had frizzy brunette hair which she hadn’t bothered to run her aquamarine come through before she shoved it behind her ears, she obviously hadn’t finished washing off her makeup by the streak of mascara you saw smudged off her face in her sleep (as if she would ever), or her plain throw-on clothes of old sweats topped with a T-shirt that said “I’m not an old, I’m a classic.” Maybe she should find an escape in a story created by herself, she obviously needs it just by her mundane appearance. She was like “The Little...