Ria-DeVrai

          The days were growing shorter as time passed and the sky was always blanketed with dreary gray clouds. On October 13th, the wind was finally carrying the beginnings of a frosty winter chill. That day had always held a tremendous significance for Jasmine. It was a bittersweet day that she anticipated with excitement and aversion for many years previous.          It was midmorning when Jasmine first approached the docks. A light and misty fog still hovered over the bay when she arrived, yet the place appeared to be completely abandoned. Jasmine walked to the edge of the dock, her heavy boots creating a muted thudding sound as she wa

I was coming home for the first time in eight years. Home. After all this time, I still remember just what home looks like. The black pavement of the street leading up to a cracked cement driveway of our house, the blue door, the big window facing the city skyline… I remembered it all. I kept my scrapbook with me all this time just so I wouldn't forget. My mother laughed at me. She said I was foolish and that we would see home again soon. Why did it matter whether I remembered what home looked like or not?  "It matters to me," I would always answer. Home was home, and I wanted to pick up life exactly where I left off. You can't imagine how

I wanted to wear my new red dress that I bought on sale at the mall last Saturday. It has a v-neck, slits up the side, and hugs my hips just right. But Mommy said I should wear the pink dress, the hideous one with the lace collar and the satin sash that I've hated since we bought it. I don't get why it's such a big deal, especially considering that pink and red are not that different in terms of color. It's just that I think red makes me look more grown up, just like I want to look, and the pink seem to take off about four years of age. I outgrew this dress long ago, but Mommy insists that I don't throw it away. I was shoved into that gruesom

          "I have to talk to you," Jasmine shouted. The music was loud and pounded painfully in her ears. She speaker was two feet away and the floor beneath her rumbled to the beat. The air was oppressive with the heat of two hundred dancing bodies and colored lights danced playfully across the walls.          "What?" Shawn too was trying to yell over the noise.          "I said I have to talk to you!"          She avoided his eyes when she spoke. Even now, she couldn't bring herself to look directly at him. Her voice was unsteady and her whole body was shaking involuntarily. It had been a complete mystery to her why she decided to do

     Darren shoved open the wooden door and carried his paper coffee cup to the back of the room. It had become a ritual. Every Tuesday morning he would buy a large mocha at the kiosk on the corner and walk another two blocks to his early morning creative writing class. The class began at 5 in the morning and convened at 7, so the sun was usually just rising by the time he arrived at his one-room apartment. He slid into his normal seat at the back of the small classroom, next to the window and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The air conditioning blew directly on him, but he had grown used to it. It was a small price to pay for the perfect view