Cassie puts the pumpkins next to her door, their smiles broken with missing teeth. When the witches and werewolves and Harry Potters knock on her door, Cassie’s bowl is empty. The astronauts and Wonder Women pout, refuse her boxed raisins and green apples. Hours later, her driveway is draped in toilet paper. The next morning she spots Milky Way wrappers littered around the pumpkins, their faces buttery. How could you, she starts, stops. Notices the peony looks peaked, the ground parched. Compost, she says, but when she reaches for them, the pumpkins bare their new teeth, whispering “Trick or treat.”
writer. editor. doodler. er.
Writings in the Raw
Julia Halprin Jackson
writer. editor. doodler. er.
I write.
I doodle.
I'm at work on my first book, a collection of linked short stories that follows a community of expatriates living on the southern coast of Spain.
I care about stuff. Like curing type 1 diabetes. And marriage equality. And rights for immigrants. And public radio. And espanol. And Frank O'Hara and Jennifer Egan and Federico Garcia Lorca and Tony Kushner. You know, cool stuff.
I make postcards that are also stories.
Sometimes I read stories and poems out loud.
Sometimes I go to conferences.
You can find my short stories, essays, poems and flash fictio in a variety of places in print and online. If you Google really hard, you might find the two short radio pieces I produced on a badass NPR affiliate in San Francisco.
This is where you can go to find out who I am.