“Pinning,” by Lindsay A. Chudzik

Apr 20th, 2016 | By | Category: Fiction, Prose

I played tennis with Madeline Morling each Monday. Everly Trickett and I did tea on Tuesdays. Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays I lunched with other ladies who lunched. I spent weekends shuffling my children to play dates with the Morling, Trickett, and Kipling children, and shuffling my husband, Andy, and me to dinner dates with their parents sans the Kiplings. Andy didn’t approve of Russ Kipling, our newest neighbor, because he had secured their home through what my husband called “a tacky foreclosure.” Also, his wife worked in the non-profit sector while Russ cared for their twins. Andy often said, “Never trust a man with unscuffed shoes, Corrine.” He insisted this pointed to laziness and an unwillingness to provide for his family.

Despite Andy’s barely scuffed Spectator Wingtips, I agreed with him about Russ, and I reassured him I was proud of what he did every day for our family at Bank of America. If he didn’t oversee those who were collecting people’s outstanding debts, who would? I understood there were two types of people in this world: workers and the individuals those workers kept in check.

My mother had been the latter, but I knew since my sophomore year of high school I wanted more. I suppose my mother had wanted more, too, as most conversations with her boyfriends she started with, “You have to treat me better, asshole.” But she never encountered the Cliff Note’s to Pride & Prejudice and, despite our living in Pennsylvania instead of England, while reading I understood the easiest path to attaining that more I desired—marrying up. My childhood best friend, Shelley, agreed, but Shelley had acne and back fat, and even someone like Andy—red-faced, gray-toothed Andy—wouldn’t notice her once presented with options.

A cold snap arrived in early October, causing autumn leaves to accumulate like snowdrifts on our lawn and my loyalties to my husband to get buried along with my social life. It grew too chilly to play tennis or lunch on fancy patios, so in a moment of boredom I accepted Russ’ request to follow me on Pinterest and I followed him back. I imagined his account was no different than mine or Madeline’s or Everly’s: a space to curate other, more talented people’s ideas, then make lists of similar items to scavenge for at craft festivals. As Halloween approached, however, Russ’ pins started flooding my feed.

“Look at these costumes I made for Vicky and Ricky—a spider and its web!” he wrote. Both had more glitter than a Mariah Carey album, and Everly exclaimed both were shoo-ins for Lower Gwyneth Elementary’s annual contest. My daughter’s cowgirl costume and my son’s plastic Batman mask, recycled items from previous years because they dearly loved them, paled in comparison. Could I honestly blame myself if Emiline and Ethan cared for their belongings, though? Isn’t assigning sentimental meaning to objects a positive trait, despite it shoving them off of the judges’ radar? Hadn’t Madeline and Everly bemoaned those children who only won in years past because their mothers had tried too hard, ordering expensive costumes in an attempt to fit in with the wealthier families, a misstep I too made before Madeline took me under her wing? She’d told me she was bored at the Bank of America events her husband made her attend. “I need an ally, someone to have fun with,” she’d said. “The other wives are too old or too nouveau.” She tacitly acknowledged I fit into the latter category when dispensing her first piece of advice: “Always remember, money screams, but wealth whispers.”

But then came Russ’ jack-o-lanterns. “Here’s some pumpkins I decorated between Vicky’s piano lesson and Ricky’s soccer game!” he wrote. This was followed by photographic evidence of his carving excellence: Ziggy Stardust, the Eiffel Tower, and the shower scene from Psycho. They taunted me online. Later, they taunted me while I walked my pug, the tangled swirl of Greek Revivals and English Tudors falling away in my mind like an uninteresting landscape might as his pumpkins took center stage. Madeline repinned Ziggy Stardust, likely as a way to remind herself she once was edgier and had listened to more than just Kidz Bop. In case it wasn’t a vanity repinning, though, I stressed that Russ’ carvings were ill conceived. I reminded Madeline of her own ideas, pointing to the likely possibility of delinquent children in neighboring developments just waiting to muck up our ordinarily pristine roundabouts. I suggested they would seize this opportunity to smash his pumpkins to assert further their delinquency, Russ’ décor serving as mere bait to entice these adolescents to act like savages.

But Russ was relentless. Later that evening he wrote, “Check out these cupcakes fashioned after witches! I whipped them up while my children played in their tree house!” I imagined the chocolate mousse from the pointy iced hats ringing Vicky and Ricky’s heart-shaped mouths. I also imagined their blood sugar skyrocketing. My children’s apples and peanut butter might not have been as photogenic, but I was preparing them to become more photogenic adults, the type who didn’t need root canals and didn’t have diabetes. This dedication made me feel like a martyr. Still, when I picked up my children from a play date the following afternoon, Emiline exclaimed, “Mrs. Morling made Mr. Kipling’s cupcakes! I had two!” As she pushed her unopened lunch pail towards me, she added, “They were dee-lish-us! Yummers!”

“Use your words,” I said, even though Emiline had used words. “Use prettier words. Grammatically correct words.”

“You can’t always push vegetables on us, ma,” Ethan whined. “Mrs. Morling agrees.”

“Don’t sass me, especially in front of your younger sister,” I said. I considered asking if Mrs. Morling planned on taking him to the dentist, but I knew it was ridiculous to attempt to have a rational conversation with a seven-year-old. How could ordinarily rational adults whom I considered friends begin paying more attention to Russ than me, though, not noticing the damage his pins caused? Poor eating habits which put children in nutritional jeopardy. Backtalk. Russ was a monster, a monster that was destroying my community and my children.

Like most monsters, Russ was ruthless. The next morning he wrote, “Look at this wreath I assembled using the berries and foliage I collected while walking the twins to school! Before their dismissal, I’m going to repaint our front door to better match it!” This pin soon was followed by images of their new aubergine door. I had been begging Andy to hire a painter to touch up ours for months, but when I showed him Russ’ pin, he insisted it looked ostentatious. “You should appreciate our shabby chic look, Corrine,” he said, a catchphrase I was certain he’d simply come across while perusing one of my Southern Livings on the toilet.

“I don’t appreciate our shabby chic look,” I said. “It’s trendy.” I hoped to appeal to his classic sensibilities or, more so, his desire to avoid spending money on styles that quickly fell out of vogue. As I aged, I saw a definite need for an appendix to the Cliff’s Notes for Pride & Prejudice, one that illustrated how most rich people get and stay rich by being stingy. I sometimes missed my mother’s insistence on new school wardrobes each fall, filling my closet with cheap, unsturdy garments I easily could replace the following September. There was something exhilarating in knowing I didn’t have to commit, a certain excitement an inexpensive asymmetrical blouse lent that a costly yet sensible wrap dress never could. I’d shopped enough with Madeline and Everly to train myself to spot classics on the racks and, by measures, begin to love them. Still, when my mother who had moved to Florida occasionally sent clothing for my birthday or Christmas, it sometimes proved difficult to add those presents to the donation pile.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Andy said, giving Russ’ pin another look. I should have been pleased that at least one person hadn’t joined the cult of Russ, but this made me angrier. Andy’s allegiance to Russ’ ideas would have benefitted me or, at least in the immediate sense, my door.

I tried to ignore Russ’ Pinterest by watching reality shows about housewives like myself and, while I still felt as glamorous as these women, I knew my life wasn’t as interesting. Emiline and Ethan should have been enough, but they’d become ghosts of me, really. When couples consider children in the abstract, they often are drawn to the promise of unconditional love and dressing their offspring in perfect outfits. Perhaps the love part remains, but the fact that these children will want to assign stupid names to household pets and select their own garish attire is rarely considered. I was unable to orchestrate the ways they represented themselves and, by extension, me. Emiline recently wore pink carnation spandex to a roller skating party. Ethan gave the Fed-Ex guy the finger for no other reason besides being able. Our dog’s name was Cowboy, a name I was forced to repeat in dog parks and whenever he tried to greet houseguests with unwanted jumps and barking.

Knowing I couldn’t craft like Russ, I grew desperate to draw attention to myself in other ways. I considered engaging in catfights with my friends like the women on Bravo, but this seemed unlikely. Madeline was anorexic and, as a result, too frail to fight. Everly was Quaker. Russ was a man and, since it wasn’t acceptable for us to hit each other, I found it inappropriate for Madeline and Everly to even consider him part of our inner circle. Perhaps I didn’t need a catfight if I could just prove to my friends that I was a domestic goddess who loved her children more than Russ loved his, a trait I never imagined Madeline and Everly cared about until now.

Despite having plans to dine at the club with the Morlings, I took on some of the au pair’s duties for a change, dumping water into a pot on the stove, preparing it for whole wheat pasta. I combed the market’s weekly circular while I waited for the water to boil, listing items the au pair could purchase that I wouldn’t ordinarily approve of, items the children loved like animal crackers and Pop Tarts. I justified my choices by clinging to the “high in calcium” labels I knew these items bore to lure in oblivious mothers. My children needed to smile more, and I was willing to loosen the reigns if these small concessions made that possible.

Then, Russ pinned a photograph of the homemade bread and beef stew he concocted so his family could share a hearty meal together to kick off the weekend. Suddenly, my whole wheat pasta looked uninviting from its box, the jarred sauce beside it even more so. I tossed the not-yet-bubbling water into the sink. I phoned Madeline to tell her Andy was feeling unwell so we were unable to keep our plans. She likely only had room for one project in her life, one person who didn’t fit automatically. I had to do something to stay in her good graces before next seeing her, something that would prove I was more worthy of her attention than Russ.

“What’s wrong with Andy,” she asked.

“Could be bronchitis. Maybe bird flu,” I said. While she rambled about a Korean shop downtown that sold designer medical masks should we need them, I pillaged Google for images of stews that went beyond Russ’ pedestrian meat and potatoes. Disconnecting with Madeline, I settled on Boeuf Bourguignon. I pinned the photo and its recipe, claiming both as my own. I wrote, “Just a little French cooking for my children and sick husband on this chilly autumn night.” Madeline immediately inquired about the brand of Cognac I’d used and if it was safe to allow minors to consume liquor-laced stew. Everly overlooked this discrepancy and repinned the recipe without follow-up questions. Russ wrote, “Peux-tu cuisine?!?” Trying also to sound fluent, I responded, “bon appetite!” When he wrote, “merveilleux!” I was stumped, unable to come up with a single French word on my own. I Googled “obscure French phrases,” but felt so anxious I simply bid adieu to Russ and the rest of our cul-de-sac rather than giving myself away. I knew I should have paid more attention to Mademoiselle Duncan in high school. I knew I should’ve insisted on a European au pair, instead of one from South America. Still, I was already in better spirits about the responses to my stew and, after ordering a pizza, I settled into an episode of The Real Housewives of New York while waiting for the au pair to return from picking up my children from ballet and karate.


The questions about my stew persisted the following morning as I tried to field them, hunched over my laptop in bed. Are you French? Is this a family recipe? Have you always had such culinary prowess? I told all of those who asked that my inclination to make the dish came to me like a magic trick, that my inspiration was akin to any great artiste and that, once one discovered his or her gift for sculpture or music or food preparation, denying that calling was impossible.

But my followers demanded more recipes once they tested my first. I considered comparing my stew to a masterpiece, pointing out how it would have been better for many celebrities to sink into obscurity once they reached their pinnacles. Paul McCartney with the last Beatles’ album, Let It Be, the title itself practically nudging him to disappear. Ice-T with NWA. The interest people had in my pins prevented me from stopping, though, drunk on their attention. Russ pinned an afghan he completed for his daughter’s bed and I knew I quickly would lose the ground I’d gained if I didn’t counter his creativity.

“Why did Madeline ask if I recently traveled outside of the country?” Andy asked as he entered our bedroom to adjust his tie in the full-length mirror. He leaned in to kiss me, but instead pulled away, likely noting my morning breath. “And why haven’t you showered? You’ve been on that computer all morning.”

“I told her you might have bird flu, or something like it. Just tell her work sent you to Egypt.”

“Bank of America wouldn’t do that,” he said. “Besides, I work with her husband.”

“Well make up something. I hate going out with the Borlings sometimes. Madeline always pushes her food around her plate to make it look like she’s eating and it makes me feel like a pig.”

“Then you better get out of bed and hit the gym before dinner tonight,” Andy said. “I rescheduled.” I didn’t give him my usual affirmative speech before he headed to work on a Saturday morning, but he didn’t seem to notice. Andy couldn’t see with his ears the way I imagined a significant other should, detecting those smaller things that either were hinted at or left unsaid. He only saw with his eyes, thus he was disappointed not by my lying, but by my looking unkempt first thing in the morning.

My children begged me to let them play at the Kiplings, but instead I told them they could have free range of the television and eat unhealthy snacks all day. I also promised they could let Cowboy on the couch. If I was going to convince Russ and the rest of the neighborhood women that I was more talented, securing friendships for my children and me, Emiline and Ethan had to be implicated. While the au pair served them Eggo Waffles, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, and Planters peanuts straight from the jar, I pinned photos of crème brulee French toast, peanut butter & jelly crepes, and bourbon pecan chicken. As they shoveled in these snacks, I coached them on what to tell everyone else. “If you want to go back to celery sticks and carrots, you can,” I warned. “I would hate to have to do that to the two of you, though. You deserve to be spoiled.”

After seeing my pins, Madeline called to see if we were still on for the club. “Andy never told me he rescheduled,” I said. “I’ve already slaved over dinner for my family. I can’t possibly skip out.”

“We don’t mind coming to you,” she said. “I do love anything with bourbon!”

“Andy’s probably contagious,” I said. “Even though he went to work, he was up all night coughing.”

“I can bring some of those designer medical masks we discussed,” she said.

“Trust me. You’ll want to stay far away for at least a couple of days.”

When I texted Andy to explain we weren’t going to the club again tonight, he said he would go to the club’s bar alone. “I can’t stand another night in,” he wrote. I’m not sure what time it was when he came home because I was busy pinning images of meals and snacks I never made, meals and snacks that were being re-pinned at far greater rates than Russ’ contributions. When Andy finally came to bed, I didn’t bother asking about his night at the club because nights at the club were always the same. He quickly fell asleep while I continued to pin, the glow from my computer screen flickering in the reading glasses he forgot to remove. Despite his snoring, I also eventually slept well knowing there were people out there who wished their lives were more like mine.


Over the next few weeks, I broadened my interests on Pinterest, moving from culinary creations to crafts and home décor. I pinned broaches, earrings, and necklaces. I pinned children’s barrettes and headbands. I pinned greeting cards, doorstops, and paperweights. I pinned a chandelier.

I started knowing Andy by the gobs of toothpaste stuck to his side of our double-sink, a half-eaten English muffin left on a plate on the counter, dress shirts placed in a bag for our au pair to take to the cleaners. We rarely conversed when together, me bent over my laptop while he stared intently at the television, even during commercials.

I stopped allowing the Morling, Trickett, or Kipling children in our house, as their parents would have to drop them off and pick them up and, in doing so, they would notice I didn’t have any of my crafts on display. I also stopped meeting Madeline and Everly for lunch, aware I had none of the handcrafted accessories they would expect to see paired with my outfits. Most days, I didn’t change out of my sweats. I noticed Madeline and Everly had stopped repinning my creations, but their cold shoulders didn’t bother me as much as they ordinarily would because women as far as Tuscaloosa, Boise and Tempe were repinning me.

Eventually, Everly cornered me in Target, our au pair unable to shop for me because she was traveling for her birthday, a trip she’d worked into her contract. “Did I do something to offend you?” she asked. “If so, I want to make amends.” Her pacifist nature prevented her from ignoring the signs of a deteriorating friendship like a normal person might.

“I’ve been so busy with the children and Andy’s pneumonia,” I said. “It takes weeks to recover from an illness like that.”

“Madeline thought Andy had bird flu.”

“Heavens no,” I said. “He would have to be quarantined were that the case.”

“I thought I saw him at the club a few nights last week,” she said. “Well, at least I thought I saw his car when I drove by.”

“You know Andy. He’s always go, go, go. I’m proud he’s such a hard worker, but I do wish he’d listen to his doctor. He would’ve recovered much sooner!”

“Well, I’m not going to set foot outside of this store until you agree to have me to dinner,” she said. “Your constant culinary pins have made me so hungry!” Aware the housewives on the shows I watched prided themselves on their abilities to throw memorable dinner parties and proud that Everly had just admitted out loud she was still paying close attention to my activity on Pinterest, I extended an invitation to her for the following night. I told her to invite Madeline as well. “We’ll be there.”

When I reached my car, I asked Siri to locate a caterer. “Fast, Siri,” I added. “Fast.” She recommended Mitch’s Kitchen and, although it had five stars on Yelp, I’d seen the establishment a few times on the restaurant report for improperly storing meats and cheeses. Besides, I didn’t trust Yelp users. Even Arby’s had five stars, people utilizing phrases like “the perfect lunch spot” and “simply mouth-watering”. Siri recommended the club, but Madeline and Everly would recognize any dish prepared there. Andy and I had a decent caterer for our wedding, but he was no longer in business.

Then, I remembered Shelley’s brother, Louie, whom I heard had opened his own restaurant. During my second semester of college, my mother’s boyfriend had cleared out her scarce savings, momentarily forcing me to leave behind school to help her. Shelley found me a full-time job managing a coffee shop where she worked as a barista and suddenly, rather than studying art history from learned professors in lecture halls, I spent most afternoons in the café staring at the images of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera imprinted on the women’s and men’s bathroom doors respectively. I stayed up late drinking cheap liquor and playing cards with Shelley to distract myself from my life. Louie had been attending culinary school and he often whipped up midnight snacks, saving us from pilgrimages to the all-night salad bar at Lancer’s.

Soon, I’d met Andy, a business major studying at Wharton who frequented the café. Shelley adored him, despite his always coming with his girlfriend in tow. But Andy showed up solo one morning and specifically asked for Shelley, wanting her to prepare his dry cappuccino and dispense advice about his unexpected break-up. She was taking an exam at the community college, so I stepped up, sensing an opportunity to get out of that hellhole. I was far more attractive than Shelley, plus Andy was depressed, the perfect combination. “I was going to ask out Shelley today, but I never thought to pursue you,” Andy had said. I never told Shelley about the conversation. By the end of that summer, Andy I were living together and I had no need to return to college or talk to Shelley or Louie again.

“Siri,” I said. “Find Chef Louie Taylor.” She pointed me to a location just seven miles west but, despite its proximity, I was certain Madeline and Everly had never ventured there. Louie Louie’s Creole Catering had excellent reviews and, unlike Arby’s, its pictures actually looked mouth-watering. The food also looked far more sophisticated than his quesadillas and pizza rolls that had once impressed me. I called right away.

“Corri!” he said. “I thought you were dead!”

“It’s Corrine now,” I said. As I placed my order, he insisted he needed to prep the food onsite due to a recent grease fire. Still, I was determined to make it work and I figured he could use the money.

“I’ll pick you up. You’re right next to the Pizza Hut on Main, right?” I asked, aware I couldn’t risk someone spotting a catering truck in my driveway.

“That Pizza Hut’s a daycare center now. Drop-a-Tot.”

“Then I’ll pick you up in front of Drop-a-Tot,” I said. “You have to be out of my house before three, so what time should I get you?”

“Eleven.” As we negotiated price, I thought of all the times Shelley and I walked to that Pizza Hut, playing Joan Jett or Journey on the jukebox and trying to capture the attention of the pimple-faced high school boys who worked there. It had been the highlight of our adolescence.

When Andy returned from work, I told him he instead would need to attend the children’s Halloween parade the following afternoon at one. “But they’ll be devastated that you’re not there,” he protested. “What if they win?”

“They won’t win,” I said. “Besides, I have a mammogram scheduled for the morning. I found a disturbing lump, like a pea.” I felt ashamed for saying so, but I’d just been watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey, so Amber’s story was what came out.

“Why didn’t you start with that?” he asked. “I have an important meeting in the morning, but I can go to the parade.”


As I pulled up to Drop-a-Tot, I waved Louie to my car. “You look great,” I said. He’d aged, probably because he wasn’t using the right skin products. ‘Throw your stuff in my trunk, then get in the back seat.”

“The back seat? I should charge you extra for being difficult, especially after not hearing from you in almost ten years,” he said. “You seem—different. Still painting?”

“I don’t have time for stuff like that,” I said. “Shit!” I read a text from Andy: “Can’t make parade. Had to reschedule meeting to afternoon.”

“Excuse me?” Louie asked.

“Oh, nothing. Just lay across the back seat. Please.”

“Well, this is going to cost you extra,” he said, though he did as I’d requested.

“Whatever,” I said. “As long as no one sees you. I can’t let anyone know I had help making this meal and my neighbors notice everything.”

“Damn, Corri,” he said. “Sounds messed up.” Though he seemed to accept my explanation, I grew more and more nervous he’d pop up at any moment as the Dollar Trees and boarded up houses began to be replaced by yoga studios and homes with sprinkler systems. Madeline, Everly, and Russ shouldn’t be on the road—they’d already dropped off their kids at school and it wasn’t yet time for lunch. Rush hour had passed and their husbands and wife already were settled into work. As we drove by the club, however, I almost was certain I spotted Andy’s car in its parking lot. I was angry at the thought of him skipping out on the parade, yet having enough time for breakfast. I also was angry at the thought of who he might be having breakfast with, but I knew I couldn’t stop with Louie in my backseat. I didn’t let him out of the car until I’d safely pulled into the garage and closed its door behind me.

While he prepared blackened catfish, fried okra, and red beans and rice, I snapped photographs with my phone of his process, carefully cropping out Louie before pinning a few. He was working faster than I’d expected and there was a good chance I could still make it to the children’s parade. Also, the images I shared had been quickly repinned. I felt a surge of excitement each time my work was shared, like anything was possible, like my name was on the tips of so many people’s tongues. “Don’t you ever put down your phone?” Louie asked. “You’re not as talkative as you used to be.”

“I have work-related stuff to tend to,” I explained. His messiness made me nervous. My house needed to look pristine for the dinner party, so I cleaned around him while he worked. I thought of how I used to take comfort in his sister’s messiness during my unexpected return from college, as it was something stable, something that seemed like it would never change. “How’s Shelley?”

“Nearly finished her PhD,” he said. “Took her a bit longer to get started, but hey, that’s often the case with most of the interesting people I know.” Then, he added, “Maybe there’s still hope for you?” Even though he was always a jokester, I couldn’t help feeling like this was a jab.

Rather than asking what Shelley had studied or where, I headed towards the dining room to set the table with placemats I’d ordered on Etsy, careful there were no tags or signatures that would give away their true origin. I pinned photos of the settings once I’d completed my inspection, then re-inspected and pinned other items in my living room and foyer that I also had purchased through Etsy and planned to pass off as my own. Like the food, these images were quickly repinned. I noticed Russ hadn’t pinned anything in days. Perhaps he felt overwhelmed by my output. Perhaps he realized he needed to step aside and let someone with true talent shine.

Louie called from the other room to tell me the meal was complete but, before I could reach the kitchen, he shrieked. When I reached him, Andy was waving a spatula over his head.

“I knew you were cheating,” Andy screamed at me. “Why else would you let yourself go so much? You barely change out of your pajamas when you’re around me and you’re up until all hours chatting online with this—?”

“I don’t care if I knew you way back, you people are strange” Louie said, rushing towards the closest door. “I’ll be sure to mail you the bill.” With that, he let himself out. I was relieved he was gone and even more relieved none of my neighbors would spot him, as the parade was about to start.

“Everly and Madeline must know all about the two of you, too. No wonder you’ve been keeping them from me,” Andy said, now waving the spatula at me. “How was the doctor? I decided to meet you there, but the secretary said you never had an appointment.”

“I don’t have cancer,” I said. “But I’m also not cheating on you. Can you say the same? Weren’t you at the club this morning?”

“Yeah, the club right across from your doctor’s office,” he said.

I wanted to tell him I’d hired the chef, a dear childhood friend, to teach me how to cook Creole for him, but I was distracted by a notification on my phone. Russ had repinned me for the first time, sharing the catfish I’d spent the past two days stressing over. I knew I’d arrived. He was the real deal and in that moment I fully understood what I’d been up against, as well as the weight of Russ’ admitting publically that I’d done something noteworthy he first hadn’t considered. Andy tried to swipe my phone, but I ducked.

“I’m going to stay with my brother for a while,” Andy yelled. I knew he’d be back by morning. His brother had married a Baptist who didn’t drink and they didn’t belong to a club. I’d deal with my husband tomorrow, but first I had to execute without him the most repinnable dinner party possible, a glimpse into an exclusive world where I did the picking and choosing, where I decided what was elegant and what was tacky, where I was what others aspired to be.


Defenestration-Lindsay A. ChudzikLindsay A. Chudzik received her MFA in Creative Writing from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her one-act plays have appeared in a number of festivals and Lindsay’s short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Dogwood: A Journal of Poetry & Prose, Ghost Town, Haunted Waters Press, and Map Literary, among others. Her creative nonfiction has been anthologized and her short story, “Check Yes If You Like Us,” was a finalist for the 2015 Dogwood Prize. Currently, she is an Assistant Professor of Writing at Virginia Commonwealth University and facilities creative writing workshops for ex-offenders at OAR in Richmond, Virginia.

Tags: , , , ,

Comments are closed.