An Open Letter from the Woman I Want to Be to the Woman I Am

There are many things I could tell you, maybe half of which you would believe, because that is our way: to chew before swallowing, to decide for ourselves whether we like the taste of a statement before we accept it. But please, let me convince you of this: it’s better to grow a calloused skin than a calloused heart.

It’s not the fashion, to wear this evidence of wear and tear on the outside for everyone to see. Baby soft skin is prettier. It’s more inviting, more pleasant to touch. You’ve even been told that it’s easier to love, and that any display of past imperfection makes you weak. It’s better to keep your scars tucked inside your rib cage, etched on a heart that few can see.

But ignore the person who asks you to make it easy for them; you are worth earning. Ignore the person who thinks they can read weakness in a marked skin; they don’t know what left those marks or the strength you used to reap them. There is beauty in experience and in perfectly fitted armor.

Flash Fiction: Skidding (1144 words)

Harry was flunking. He hadn’t said anything, but Shereth knew it from the tautness that had shown up in every action, every word over the last few weeks.

It wasn’t unusual to flunk at the Academy. Eight levels, and the administration claimed a student could complete it in eight years, but no one ever had. There was a wall, tucked into the back of Flight Prep, where the few who graduated scribbled their names. It was the only graffiti that the Academy allowed. The wall wasn’t even close to being filled.