Tiffany Tang

jimenezA native Californian, Tiffany knew she wanted to be a writer when she found herself happily volunteering to diagram sentences in her junior high English class. Deciding then, at 13, that she would be an English major in college, she accomplished her goal at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts. Her literary studies also took her to England for a year abroad, where she earned a diploma in English and American Literature. Detouring for a bit after graduation to pursue other artistic endeavors, Tiffany received an MFA from the Actors Studio Drama School in New York, but her love of writing never left her. While acting, she has also worked as a newspaper journalist, a speechwriter, and a business writing teacher. She continues to write personal essays, rehearsal blogs, plays, and screenplays, and has recently begun to dabble in the world of fiction.

Other Works

Death Tracks

(294 words without title)

"She was sweet and blonde and three, with curls in her hair, and she thought he was the cat’s meow."

The road stretched out interminably in front of Death.

It was a single lane highway, sandwiched by desert, accompanied by a train track. The sun was approaching dusk ahead, and the black crept in swiftly from the hills behind.

Death power-walked down this highway. He had to get away from her.

She was sweet and blonde and three, with curls in her hair, and she thought he was the cat’s meow.

Death had never been anyone’s cat’s meow. And he’d been partnered with a lot of people. But typically, he was never noticed, not until he deliberately introduced himself at...well, the end.
But Betty. She was different. She would baby coo at him, reaching out for his bony fingers to shake them like rattles. Her parents, of course, were blind – they had their own Death following them around – but they would often turn to his invisibility and wonder what Betty was so taken with. Betty would giggle.

Then, Betty grew. Certainly, she would lose sight of him, as they do. But, no. Instead, she invited him to lunch. Him. A skeleton in dark swaying robes with a faceless nothingness sitting at a plastic yellow table on a bright orange plastic chair.

Now, Death walked on, marching into the darkness. Distance was futile, but it was all he had.
It wasn’t until the car had screeched and stopped short that he had begun to doubt his own job requirements. Sheltering Betty in his arms that day, he had abruptly become protection for the girl. Protection from…well, death.

Death looked straight ahead.  He had seen the train approaching for some time now. The light in the darkness. He wondered if he could risk redundancy. Another choice? No. She knew too much.

Death stepped onto the tracks.

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