Leah Q. Adult-in-Training

          There’s this house, it’s modest, one story, with a light green door. Small panes cut a semi-circle shaped window in the top of the wood. Opening the door you see a home. Pictures of a little girl are plastered across the walls, her in a ballerina costume, father-daughter photos, senior portraits, they all tell a story of the young woman who used to live there. Crossing the tiled floor you come to the dining room, a dark brown table sits there taking up a majority of the room. This is a table where so many things happened; arts and craft projects, IB essays were written here, tattoos were drawn up on this table, forever inked into skin the same way the memories were inked into our heads. Vibrant at first glance but slowly fading into blurred lines a barely discernible image             Sometimes we as people hold on to objects because we have nothing left to remember a person by. Th...

          I took this class last semester, it was supposed to be your typical public speaking class. A way to teach students how to communicate in the business world but, it ended up being an experience slightly more eye-opening than previously thought. A month in to class he had this assignment for us, “write something you’re dealing with right now.” I think the week before Mara and I had argued about cleaning and I couldn’t really come up with anything else so I scribbled “my roommate is being an asshole,” really quickly in scrunched up cursive and folded my paper. Seconds later my professor made eye contact and then said, “I want what you’re writing to be real, don’t bullshit this answer.” My initial reaction was, “fuck that shit,” I don’t talk about my problems to a classroom full of people, hell I don’t even like to talk about stuff like that to my friends. I balled up my paper and stared at a blank page in my notebook. The lines started to blur I was thin...