Eventually, in a way that aches deep between your lungs and crawls across your heart, the large, bright room is once again silent. My back is sliding down the wall, knees bent, fists to my forehead. The only sound is irregular, broken breaths and the soft sounds of people gathering up stained sheets, soaked towels, and clearing away the piles of unbelievable amounts of gelatinous blood. 

[Personal Essay] Friday afternoon and late September sun just barely spills into a 9th grade biology classroom. Mr. Mulvey stands in front of a chalkboard pointing at an oversized cartoon of a cell. I stare at the clock, watching the hands slowly tick towards the end of the day. I’m not particularly interested in biology.

[Flash Fiction] When I was there, I worked in the synthetic biology and human systems lab — a cold, grey slab of stone that is closest to the airfield, furthest from the road, and my dorm was on the adjacent air force base, right next to the end of the airfield and the stripped metal frame of a massive hanger that looks as if it's the ribcage of a steel giant.