Lori A. A.
Bio
Writer exploring identity, human behavior, and life between cultures. Sharing reflective essays and observations from an African living in Japan.
Achievements (1)
Stories (109)
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Draft with Revisions
My father told me what life was. You go to school. You get a job. You earn money. You retire. My father didn’t offer this as advice, no. He described it as routine, a set way of doing things that had worked before. Years of hardship, repetition, and caution shaped this path. There was no room for discussion. I never questioned it because that seemed pointless, even wasteful, and waste was not allowed in that system.
By Lori A. A.2 months ago in Fiction
Seeing life through eyes we’re taught to ignore
When I first looked at this image, it didn’t seem remarkable. A father is in a small wooden boat, fishing. The water is calm. His children sit closely behind him, watching his every move. One of them says, with quiet confidence, “Dad is trying to get us food.”
By Lori A. A.2 months ago in Humans
When Work Stops Defining Us
For most of my life, work felt like an anchor — not just something I did to earn money, but something that explained me. It gave shape to my days, language to my introductions, and reassurance that I was moving in the “right” direction. When someone asked, “What do you do?” I knew how to answer. And in answering, I felt seen.
By Lori A. A.2 months ago in Futurism
The Ones We Lift Are the Ones Who Break Us
Recently, I read a short story that stuck with me strangely. Well, I must have been reading this for like the hundredth time since childhood, I can't remember how many, really. It’s the kind you think about while doing chores or lying in bed, and it makes you ask yourself, “Do I really get this yet?”
By Lori A. A.2 months ago in Humans
What We Do on Sundays
Every Sunday at exactly 6:40 p.m., we set the table for three. This is the ritual. The time never changes, even when the light does. In summer, the sun still presses against the windows, lingering, curious. In winter, the room is already blue with evening, the corners soft and retreating. But the clock is firm. 6:40. Not earlier. Never later.
By Lori A. A.2 months ago in Fiction
The Marking
Every night before sleep, Mara draws a line on Jonah’s back. The ritual began without discussion, which is how most enduring things begin. The first night they spent together in the apartment, Jonah complained about an itch he couldn’t reach, somewhere between his shoulder blades. Mara traced her finger along his spine, slow and deliberate, and said, “Here?”
By Lori A. A.2 months ago in Fiction
