Posted on March 14, 2013 by Sam Quinones
By Rachel Kimbrough
“…I got home from work one night to find her sitting on the couch with this weird bemused look on her face. She instructed me to sit on the couch next to her, and then told me that she’d just woken up from a wet dream about me and her only to find a demon on top of her with its mouth over hers.
She said she rebuked it in the name of the LORD and it scampered away. I moved out the next week. …”
Posted on February 27, 2013 by Sam Quinones
By David Chittenden
…So you could dig your hole to China anywhere you wanted. Well, I shouldn’t have said just anywhere. Because when the sewer came down our street, it was free, but you had to pay to be connected to it. Billy Joe’s parents never felt it was worthwhile to pay, for they still had the outhouse there behind the house, and it was working fine. There was a well-worn path from the back door of the house and to the outhouse. Naturally you couldn’t dig a hole to China on the path, or you couldn’t place any obstructions on the path in case someone had go in a hurry. …
Posted on February 27, 2013 by Sam Quinones
By Monah Li
“…Over the years, I train myself to vomit without a noise. In public bathrooms, I sit all the way back on the seat and barf between my spread legs.
I’m envied for my slim figure. But the price I pay for this is steep:
By 45, I have full-blown osteoporosis. My teeth are replaced with implants, for the cost of two houses.
Relentless back-pain, constant fatigue and shame make me suicidal.
I pray for just one day of freedom, but I am stuck. …”
Posted on December 4, 2012 by Sam Quinones
By Alexis Rhone Fancher
I remember listening
to Bob Dylan in Donna Melville’s attic
bedroom, 3 a.m. We were
drinking her daddy’s bourbon, playing
Subterranean Homesick Blues over and over,
memorizing it word by mumbled word.
Johnny’s in the basement,
mixing up the medicine, I’m on the pavement, thinkin’ ‘bout
the government… Donna passed me the bottle.
Posted on November 26, 2012 by Sam Quinones
By Theresa Asiedu
“…The sun was shining, the fresh mountain breeze was gently touching my skin and I still had the scent of pink blossoming hibiscus flowers in my nose.
My stepfather popped in and out of our lives trying to maintain control of our family. He would yell at everything, from the house that was never tidy enough to the food that didn’t suit his taste. I would find myself holding my breath when he spoke, my body tensing with every word he uttered, his voice leaving goosebumps on my skin. …”
Posted on November 26, 2012 by Sam Quinones
By Matthew Garcia
“… I hear the screech of the tires and the smell of rubber burning. My head then hits the windshield and my sight goes black for a second. My body flip upside down as if I were on a roller coaster. The car isn’t done with me. It is as if the car grows arms and grabs me and spins me around — just as in wrestling where after being spun around you get slammed into the ground. My body is tossed to the side. Silence. The car takes off.
‘’Don’t leave me here I don’t deserve this,’’ I say. …”
Posted on November 9, 2012 by Sam Quinones
Recently, I did writing workshops with students at San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton. The results were powerful, if sometimes even disturbing, stories of real life and real moments. Read “Joe,” a startling story of a misplaced word and its effect on a man…
By Gina Reyes
“…Joe was my shoulder to cry on. He was my companion to keep me occupied. He was there for me to kill time and help me keep my mind from getting stuck in a rut. We would lie around making jokes, laughing, playing spades over and over, and having a fun time together to pass time.
In the time we spent together, we built a stronger bond that turned into a love that was unmistakably precious.
He was willing to accept me and my unborn child, as well as the child I already had. He was willing to support us knowing he was not the father. …”
Posted on November 9, 2012 by Sam Quinones
One story that emerged from the Tell Your True Tale writing workshops I did with students at San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton was “Saturday” by …
By Alexandria Hendon
“…That year we moved in with him, he and I were inseparable, but it hadn’t always been that way. He denied me as his daughter several times. He had come and gone as he pleased. Each time he decided he wanted to be around my mom, my brothers, and me, he stayed around for a week or so. In that week, he would take us to dinner, zoos, and riding in go-carts. Then we wouldn’t see him for months. Every time he left, I would lose a dad all over again.
As I grew older, I learned that every time he left, he had gotten some girl pregnant. As far as I know, we have four half brothers and one half sister. My mom and dad would always fight, mainly because of his cheating, but for some reason, she would always take him back. …”
Posted on October 29, 2012 by Sam Quinones
Earlier this fall, I did a writing workshop with students in Pedro Ramirez’s composition class at San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton.
The results, I think, were terrific, if many of the stories were a bit grim. I’m publishing a few of them over the next few weeks. Here’s “The Last Day”….
By Christian Lockwood
I once had a house with a white picket fence. In it, I lived with a wife, and two children. Life seemed pretty good. But the shell shock from a tour in Libya fighting the war on terrorism tore me up, and drugs and alcohol became a way of life from which I could not free myself.
That is how one warm August day in 2009, well into my self-medication, I awake on the seat of my pickup after another night of no place to rest my head. My pickup, my dog Batman, and my cell phone are all I have left. My wife and kids have been embarrassed by me for the last time. …
Posted on October 29, 2012 by Sam Quinones
Another story from a writing workshop with students in Pedro Ramirez’s composition class at San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton.
Many of the stories were great. Among them, Darshay Smith’s story of one night years ago when her mother was shot and wounded. Check out her piece, “The Light That Night.”
By Darshay Smith
“…My mom and I were reunited nine days after her release and she was excited to see me.
From the surgeries her vocal chords had gotten deeper. Her voice was like a grown man’s and it would take a year and a half for it to get back to normal. She picked me up and held me tight. I screamed because I didn’t know who she was. She couldn’t let me go. She cried every day until her voice came back and I finally recognized her….
