I work in a range of genres that include narrative, essay, poetry, literary fiction, and non-fiction prose. I grew up in the Virgin Islands and Southern California, and earned a B.A. in Writing at UC Santa Barbara's College of Creative Studies. My coursework centered on poetry workshops, fiction, and Black Studies. I was a two-time recipient of an LA Times Literary Scholarship, a Profant Foundation Scholarship, an Idyllwild Poetry Workshop Scholarship, and a PEN Emerging Voices Fellowship.
I’m currently writing a collection of essays that combine memoir and family history, and a book about affordable wellness and beauty for all bodies. Another project I have is an eight-piece short fiction collection (excerpts below). Available for: guest readings, guest writing gigs, editing gigs, and other paid writing assignments.
Finding the Perfect Words
A neopastoral essay exploring my paternal lineage.
I help my 80-year-old father slowly out onto the porch. His right leg is stiff, the foot swollen and bandaged, protected with one of those complimentary airplane socks.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He just groans good naturedly.
“When was the last time you took a Vicodin?”
“Dem don’t work. Better a shot a jack.” Ever since he had to give up rum, he calls Jack Daniels his “medicine.” He likes to name things — summarize them with understatements or exaggerations that either glamorize or simplify. In his old Volvo back on St. Croix, for example, a seatbelt is a ‘brassiere,’ pronounced bra-zee-ay.
Right now, we’re in rural Ohio. The porch is screened, with cushioned benches and a porch swing. He likes the swing. I help him sit. I don’t live here. Neither does he, but he’s here getting medical care for his foot, which is dying.
Ways to Die In Paradise
Excerpts from my non-fiction novel about travel, heritage, family history and mediumship.
I’m walking from my car to a cafe called Semi-Tropic, hefting a canvas bag weighing about 50 lbs. I’m meeting Arianne for tea in my Silverlake neighborhood. It’s our first time hanging out one on one, even though we’ve known each other for years. In a few hours’ time, we will have discovered that we are essential to each others’ spiritual healing, personal evolution and careers. Every subsequent cocktail, luncheon, or work session will be a spiritual summit. But we don’t know that yet.
What I do know is that I’m bringing way too much stuff. This bag full of documents, postcards, letters and photos — all given to by my maternal grandmother Isabelle. I try my best to enter the cafe breezily and walk gracefully upright, even though the bag handles are cutting into my shoulder. The decor in Semi-Tropic is post-colonial rundown chic. Its patrons are mostly white hipsters. Ari and I sit at a dark wooden table, two curly heads of hair leaning in towards each other, and discuss the hidden history of Los Angeles. That of its Black and Mestizo founders, and its thriving communities of Black artists, writers, real estate agents and socialites of the early 20th Century, forgotten at large in this feverishly gentrifying brunch paradise…
The Violinist
The life of a poor musician turns surreal when his elderly piano accompanist introduces him to a wealthy inventor at a party.
In the center of the circular hall, the young man stood to the left of the pianist, tall and slightly bent back at the hips. He played his violin loosely and comfortably, without a touch of stiffness. In his simple concentration, he didn’t glance at guests or gaze at the ornamental arrangements of colored glass orbs and pine boughs on the walls, but kept his eyes on the ground. The pianist, whose own shabby appearance arguably lost him potential private playing engagements, had suggested the boy close his eyes so as not to put off guests.
Argus had first seen Homr play three years ago at the entrance to Rosemist Park. His playing was clumsy but he played with focused concentration...
Mercenary
In his own words, a captive mercenary tells the tale of an advanced ancient culture that spared no pains to build the most powerful army in the world.
I had no name. I was a slave mercenary, trained from birth to fight. The contract was drawn on the day I was conceived, and only required my newborn blood for finalizing. It would be filed in the house of laws and records until I died—in battle, of course—when they would pull it and feed it to the records fire along with those of any other servants and soldiers who had died that quarter. There was no hope or possibility of me becoming anything other than a trained killer. The methods used were elaborate and thorough, perfected over decades by masterful sorcerers and warmongers.
They made me struggle as a newborn. My nurse—someone who had not given birth to me—would not feed me until...
Letters to Featherspacks
An epistolary fantasy. Pye is a student of epic poetry on the island of Mellifula. When her sweetheart falls ill, she pours out her heart to a stranger.
Dear Featherspacks, I like writing short poems. Bear doesn’t approve of it. He says, if I want to write something short for people to read, send them a postcard. But I think they are good practice, and may eventually find their way into an epic. He doesn’t think I should show my cards before any of my epics are published, but it’s going to be so long before I ever produce a publishable one. I have two more years at University before I get my degree in Epic Poetry, then five to six years at writing temple – if I’m accepted into one – then my pilgrimage, then ten years of travels and journeys, as set out by my mentors. I mean, you have to know what you’re talking about or at least live long enough to see enough...
What Raises Kind
A trek guide grieving the loss of her companion dog leaves her mountain-dwelling tribe to seek a life beyond her kind.
“Don’t know why the Trekhead want to clear a new path,” I say to my Fa while he’s prepping meal on the bakeporch. “But I don’t sort it’s treach.” Fa’s not sorry about it either way. He just make to the shed, bring my machete and lay the sharpener by the blade on the unfinished table where we eat meal. He’s saying I mighta finish making the table—stead of leaving another job unfinished, but to go on this trek, anymatter.
As Mountainfoot hosts, our kind honor trekkers from all over—those what come to climb the Mountain and link up with their Utmost at the Top. We use a path on the northwest side, what we scout and clear before my birth. Step by step, you make Top in three days...
Mathilde's Revenge
On the island of Martinique, a cook is at the heart of a family saga when she takes their fate into her own hands.
Every morning after Monsieur Hubert had satisfied his need and left Mathilde’s small bedroom off the kitchen, the master of the house bathed, dressed, and drank his tea standing at the large window in his office, gazing out at the harbor. Mathilde would quickly clean up and dress and get back to the kitchen to continue her official work for the day. She would put on the kettle and brew Monsieur’s tea. He drank black, brewed very strong, with no milk. Malthilde would lightly knock on the door to his study and bring his tray to the window, where he would take the cup before she set the tray on the side of his rosewood desk. This was Mathilde’s favorite time of day, for a few reasons...
Havensrail
A chance meeting with a traveler in tall boots awakens a yearning for adventure in a young village girl.
Although I transformed my life with words, I’ll always think of my life as told through pictures. I see myself in a plain dress and white bonnet, crossing the town’s one bridge. That’s how I came to live there, with nothing but the clothes I wore and a contract for my services.
My parents sent me to Helene at the Havensrail Inn, from far out in the country where they farmed a piece of land too small to feed us all. My father took me as far as Haveshire, which was the larger, busier town five miles away. He stood stiffly as I kissed his tear-streaked cheek, then he squeezed my hands in his rough hands, turned around and began walking back home. I walked the rest of the way alone. I saw no one. I was to work at Helene’s for room and board and grow up with enough to eat and a bed to sleep in. That was all...