Laughter. Screams. Expletives. Anything and everything but patience the sound of a pin drop. Or maybe it was annoyance, second-hand embarrassment, anger. Edwin hunched over, shifting in his seat. Its nicked wooden legs sighed underneath his weight, echoing in the air. He wondered if they could feel the heat coming…

He was dressed like a bodyguard — a neat black sweatsuit stretched out across big broad shoulders and long, thickly-muscled limbs, and he wore exactly two gold chains. Because all rappers and their corresponding posses wear at least, or exactly, two gold chains.

His head was bald, likely usually shining…

This series is dedicated to all the time I spend on public transportation and the stories I write while I’m there.

He felt like a stranger in her hands, this body from land too hot for her liking. His petite body, bundled in thick wool and down feather garments that…

I wrote this in preparation for a job interview a while back, where I thought I had to wax poetic about myself for 5–10 minutes. They never ended up asking me to, but here’s what I started at anyway.*

I surprised myself by doing this today. For most of…

Yesterday, I bled for longer than I felt comfortable with. The area of skin wasn’t large, and I’d only had one small plastic flute of champagne before offering up the once-bare brown space on my finger to the elevated black cushion. The inside of my fourth digit, berry bruised and…

I wrote this (corny) poem six years ago… No point in it collecting dust on my hard drive.

I don’t have knees
Everything’s funny
My brain lost its filter
Thoughts keep running
And my heartbeat’s humming
As he speaks lovingly of his drumming
Umm…
I hate feeling so weak
But the butterflies rudely flutter inside
Up my windpipe making…

“You wanna know something? You have a nasty ass attitude, and that’s going to be your problem here.” I’ll never forget the day I realized I didn’t know him anymore. Did I even know him at all? Or did I just see what I wanted, I asked myself, second guessing…

“You lying, cheating, lowlife, piss poor excuse for a person!” I’m surprised at how much her punches actually hurt. She had always been on the frail side, and quite frankly, I never thought those Groupon jiu jitsu classes would actually do any good. But now, I could feel my chest…

She drew the tip of the pen across the height of the page of her journal, against the rigid lines that usually encouraged the arc of her messy cursive to follow order and confines. Her hand pulled the line this way and that, up and down, around itself, soft strokes…

Stacy-Ann Ellis

I write for myself and the characters inside my head.

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