Announcing Ms. Aligned 2

So excited to be part of Ms. Aligned 2 — an upcoming anthology of women’s writing.

Ms Aligned 2015

Layout 1_Page 3With the generous support of the SEED IDEAS program of the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, we are producing a second edition of our women’s anthology. Coming out this fall and featuring new contributors, Ms. Aligned 2 will be available in a print edition at In addition to obtaining institutional support, we are raising funds through GoFundMe. If you haven’t already made a donation, please consider it. Warmest thanks for your interest in the Ms. Aligned project.

Editorial and Promotional Team

  • Connie Pan (senior editor), a fiction writer originally from Maui. She received a BA in creative writing from Grand Valley State University and an MFA in fiction from West Virginia University. Her writing has appeared in Rosebud Magazine, Hawai‘i Review, and Bamboo Ridge. “The Patron Saint of Exits,” an excerpt from her novel in progress, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
  • Pat Matsueda (coeditor), a…

View original post 174 more words


Writing links

April.May 2014 019

Writing samples, reviews and more:

Story “White Oak”in literary/photography/art journal, The Scream Online

Paris Play

101 Words

Ms. Aligned anthology (forthcoming)

Bellingham Review

Book forums:

Author interview:


Featured writing

Burt and Mary were my great-grandparents. Houston, the unborn baby in this story, was my mother’s father, my grandfather. While I don’t know most of the facts around Burt’s lynching (Grandma Mary never wanted to talk about it), the writing of “White Oak” is an attempt to acknowledge what happened to him, to Mary and, really, to all of us.

I remember Grandma Mary well. After my mother divorced my father in the late 1970s, we moved in with my grandparents. Grandma Mary was living with them because her declining health had forced her to leave her farm.

Mary’s eyelids were like the insides of black olives, velvety and moist. Her mouth was usually full of snuff and judgmental grunts. But I remember what was sweet about her: her teacakes, the faintly sweet, soft biscuits she made from scratch, the aroma of butter, brown sugar, and vanilla rising from the oven. When the teacakes were done, she would sift them with a few dusts of flour. “Eat, eat,” she would say, and we would grab the cakes while they were still hot, biting down into the powdery golden flesh.

To read the story, please click here.