An opaque plastic cube topped with a black hinged lid, the box contains all I have of my grandfather’s family history. My grandfather was a private man and didn’t talk much about his past. After his passing, Mom gave me the box under the condition of a commitment.

So here I sit. Box open, its insides fan out in front of me in a muted collage of black and gray. Images of extinct houses and a young prince, books from a prestigious past. …


Photo by Michael Dziedzic on Unsplash

Through Mimic’s Eyes

I wanted to be as far away from her as I could. Her stillness and grey complexion made me queasy. A faint shadow of darkness hovered above her. It was barely visible now. It had been fading since she was taken away by the paramedics, that was last week.

Goosebumps tickled my arms and legs. I absently rubbed the bumpy flesh and looked around the dimly lit room from the hardwood pew in the back. Unfamiliar faces in black dresses and dark suits trickled in. …


Photo by Soundtrap on Unsplash

Running a podcast is not easy, even though it sounds pretty straight forward. If you don’t have a plan going in, you’re not likely to get beyond one or two episodes, and you aren’t likely going to get many listeners. These are the lessons I learned by failing my first podcast.

  1. Write a script
  2. Don’t rush
  3. Get out of your head.
  4. Experiment with topics
  5. Stick to a single niche
  6. Have guest hosts
  7. You don’t have to be an expert in editing.
  8. Learn to fail gracefully

There are a whole set of steps you have to take to produce your first…


Me

Identity is tricky and generates labels and judgments. I don’t deal well with either. If I were forced to use a label I would use Queer.

I prefer to remain fluid, as I am in a constant state of flux. I struggle to force myself into a box, in order to make others feel more comfortable.

My personality is claustrophobic.

The question; is fluidity born from rebellious resistance, or simply a symptom of aging?

As I age, so does my perspective. One hits a point in life, where they are tired of simply existing to please others. Where one has…


I suppose I will start by introducing myself.

My name is Desire Stevens, and I don’t exist. An odd thing to say, I know, but it is true. Desire Stevens cessed to exist, 36ish years ago. I was sad about it for years.

Honestly, having one’s identity stripped away at an early age can really be devastating. Don’t get me wrong, there were extenuating circumstances, and everyone really did just want the best for me; a mother's good intentions, a father’s vindictive manipulations…

This brings us back to the question of identity. Who am I?

Such a tricky question, really…


Photo by Chronis Yan on Unsplash

There has been so much loss in my life recently, and it is hard to keep my head clear. I find myself overwhelmed to the point of suffocation. Each new offense adds another dark brick atop an already precarious tower, threatening to topple the whole thing down around me. Eager to bury me under the twisted projections of a disconnected generation trying to dictate how I should behave and what is acceptable to feel.

In the past, I would have cowered in the corner, trying desperately to make myself invisible. I was afraid to stand up to those who refused…


I have recently discovered there was a genre for Creative nonfiction. I love writing in general, and I am an academic by nature. (Anthropology is somewhat of an obsession, and it feeds my creative nature.) I'm just finishing up a creative writing class, our final section was all about CNF. It has awakened something in deep in my soul, lol.


If you are still accepting applications for writers, I would love to submit some of my work!


I am a control freak. I suppose it isn’t surprising if you take a look at my past. I had a hard life as a kid. The woman who had a legal claim to the title “Mother” had a hard time with many things in her life — raising me was at the top of her list of inconveniences.

I should start a little bit further back. I was adopted by my father’s sister and her husband. (A story for another day.) I was around two years old at the time. I was sitting on my aunt’s lap, staring across…

Desire Stevens

My thoughts. My feelings. My story.

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