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Photo by Saulo Mohana on Unsplash

Adulting made easier.

New adulthood is a complicated mix of job-hunting, anxiety, and disruptive change. After schooling, we are thrown into the “real world.” Education taught few of us how to make a budget, eat the right food, or pay taxes. Sure, learning about what happened 300 years ago and how to solve y = mx + b is important, but it’s the basic things like cooking, grocery shopping, and paying your bills that often go unnoticed in education. Until you’re living on your own, that is.

In fact, a recent survey said that 7 in 10 adults from the ages of 18–34 received financial support from their parents in the last year, with “more than half of those [adults being] in their early 30s.” …

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Photo by Connor Betts on Unsplash

Your regret planted in
desert cacti, in spiked inhales
that cleaved your lungs.

You cried O daughter, I’m all dried up
as I soaked your feet in balm
and patient words.

The cavities in your body
smoked out, black tar clung
to your diaphragm. You wept
as moths nibbled your thick skin,
nestled larvae in your sap.

I tended your tiny fuchsia blossoms,
beauty you said was in vain,
but from these I saw your medals
pinned in petals & needles.

Abby Jewett 2019

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Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

You are my Nation,
or so I’d imagine.
Our kingdom is molded
from memories grown cold.

On winter’s fall, inspiration
licks along the castle walls.
Our words draw out
and hoist the bridge.

We are wrapped in scarlet
effigies of silken tomes.
But that’s all there is:
You are history on repeat.

Our worth is written
into abstraction, hidden
by doors closed upon
my gilded, fallen soul.

When ideas fail and bridges burn,
how can I be concrete
when words wax and wane,
muted by infinity?

To explain, I’d betray
the scourge of my heart —
my red blood retains
the answers to my anguish.

Abby Jewett 2019

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Photo by Kevin Gent on Unsplash

Mamma says to him, “She needs blood.”
Pacing on stocky, short legs,
he looks for answers
to the puzzle’s question.

What have I to give?

For a petal, he gave her tulips,
exchanged crowns of flowers
for dirt, rocks, and chicken bones.

He watched the daisy breeze
curl around her fledgling fingers
in grass rings and farmer vows.

Mamma asks, “What’s your answer?”
He holds out his hand, once
ringed in pretty weeds,
and smiles in reply.

I give her blood to live.

On the white table,
Mamma asks, “How do you feel?”
He replies: “How long till I die?”

© Abby Jewett 2019

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© Timothy Eberly, Unsplash

for Carol


that year you told me lungs
& in wilting heat I offered mine.
I made witness to the temple of your body
threshed on Missouri fields, where remains
of butterweed coiled from sundered wheat,
drenched in soil, scattered grain.


the frost drowned farms early,
liquid toxin dried your veins,
vestiges of dammed creeks
deprived beneath sunlight.


on winter afternoons we
pilfered wooden barn beams
from flooded field & purged
the relic scaffold —
we built pillars
for our hickory city,
made sacred by repair.

© Abby Jewett 2019

Two people walking a green mountain range with sunlit clouds cascading overhead.
Two people walking a green mountain range with sunlit clouds cascading overhead.
© Tim Tiedemann, Unsplash

Where am I native?
To this urban foundation, brick
washed white in violent sunlight?

Perhaps I come from Texan gardens
of red clay & moss & farmer’s markets.

Or northern meadows of bloodroot & buckbean,
frosted beneath November’s glacial praise.

I’ve spent miles seeding my roots, but
I see my blood in these walls, in paintings
of palms and cities pitched on bluffs.

I’ve traveled the earth, spun round
its axis, resided in quarries of weeds
and rotted wood.

Where I go I see beauty,
& I breathe the earth.

Abby Jewett 2019

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Photo © Markus Spiske, Unsplash

And obvious reasons why I keep quiet.

Working retail is a practice in humanity. As a cashier for a corporate retail chain store, I see some of the strangest things to ever walk this planet. I’ve seen a man walk out of my store with $200 worth of Tide Pods stuffed in his pants. I’ve had a homeless man tell me he was digging through a dumpster where he found broken vials of blood.

I’ve seen people tell me their life history in a 3-minute checkout. I’ve called the cops on shoplifters, and I’ve played mother to teenagers looking for recommendations on health food. …

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© Hannah Jacobson, Unsplash

The productivity app that changed my writing life forever.

In 2013 I wrote my first book, a single 80,000-word document on Microsoft Word. It was sheer determination through high school that made me write every day for National Novel Writing Month in November and through December. Fifty straight days, roughly 1,667 words a day.

And I did it again the following spring, writing my second book spanning 90,000 words. It was amazing. I was fire. I was magic.

But when I entered college in 2016, everything changed. Assignments flooded in from every direction, pushing my creative writing under the bridge to be replaced by essays and take-home exams. …

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Photo © Duy Pham, Unsplash

The difficult art of being good in a dreadful world.

Recently I landed a job in the customer service industry, and upon interviewing and discussing the industry, my hiring manager said something simple that has stuck with me ever since: “People are horrible.”

Three simple words, all true. But also untrue.

I’m a cashier, so in my job I work with hundreds of people coming in and out of my store. I smile, I greet, I ask them how they are. Sometimes they’re enthusiastic. Sometimes they’re tired. Nervous. Scared, even.

Sometimes they’re frustrated with waiting and take their frustration out on me. Maybe they steal. Or maybe they’re high as a kite when they buy 4 cans of Monster energy drinks and don’t even notice me as a human being. …

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© Art by Lønfeldt, Unsplash

Like the mantis that clicked
along bark, cannibal
to its mate, cells aggregated
in her organs. My eyes: tired
with malignant nouns.

On the good days
we streamed Planet Earth,
made homage to a cosmos
I could understand as frost
burned her nerves, as
poison bound her

Her frailty grazed
the tips of my lashes
& my escape was narrow
as her toxic blood swelled,
her bones infantile against
cleaving light.

In our savage world we lived
as wanderers, watched bestial bodies
devoured as I asked the Holy
for substitution.

He answered in her veins, in
the cord she made taut between
life and death and love.

Now I balance that tie,
and I see all but what it took from me.

Abby Jewett 2019


Abby Jewett

Aspiring YA author, lover of life and people, striving to do good every day. Visit me at

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