Allison Baggott-Rowe
Bio
I am an author pursuing my MA in Writing at Harvard. For fun, I mentor kids in chess, play competitive Irish music, and performed in Seattle with Cirque du Soleil. I also hold my MA in Psychology and delivered a TEDx talk about resiliency.
Stories (27)
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Wonder
If walls could talk, would you want them to? To hear the wallpaper whimper out all those wanton recollections to the rows of tomes lined and listening on dusty shelves. The stories and secrets that collected in the creases of the crown molding, the memories made in front of those unapologetic voyeurs, the high up rafter beams. Tawdry details woven into the fabric of every ornate tapestry hung before the blinds. What would you want them to say if given the impossible chance to speak the language of their creators? If walls could talk, would they not also weep?
By Allison Baggott-Rowe3 years ago in Fiction
Change on Tuvalu
Nobody saw the shark coming except for her. Even if they had, it probably would have been too late. But she did not know that then. There were more pressing issues to consider in this time, in this place. And at first, there had been no shark, anyway. How the tides can shift.
By Allison Baggott-Rowe3 years ago in Fiction
Once Upon a Grown Up
I toss, I turn. It is unclear where the cemetery stops, and the real world begins. The one with grass and trees and birds that sing the songs to others of their kind that simply ring out the idea: I am alive. The world I used to belong to before I started, bleary-eyed, down this road with a single wooden post I barely stopped to read. “What,” I think it said, but I will not look back. My feet, once so quick to skirt the sand composed of crunched up bones now drag heavy in the dust made mud in this land far too familiar now. How long have I been walking? What I would give for a drink of water. Though, I suppose, there is now nothing left to give. A lock of hair that once knew sunlight, I would shave it all off for a splash of rainwater against my feet were I able to lap the liquid greedily from my own toes. The memory of every smile I ever made. I would allow each one to blossom over my lips only to stopper them in a bottle for the consumption of a voyeur of emotions, puzzling over the idea of joy with no appreciation, nor comprehension, for the crinkled skin around my eyes or the pinprick of a dimple that calls out with inimitable authenticity. I would hold them up to receive but a patch of moistened moss so as to squeeze out the last few drops of wetness and taste it upon my parched tongue in this foreign wasteland where I have fallen once again. But behind shuttered eyelids in this land of skeletons, I find only the plotted path before me and plod on to the promise of that ephemeral land of “Next.”
By Allison Baggott-Rowe3 years ago in Poets
Small Victories
We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. Mark smiled at me from the passenger seat and reached over to squeeze my knee as we made the last turn into our home for the next two days. The stereo filtered in Christmas tunes from a CD he had burned for me last year. I had lost radio reception about ten miles back. As Josh Groban’s voice swelled to a crescendo inside the car, I couldn’t help think but how perfect it could have been.
By Allison Baggott-Rowe3 years ago in Fiction
