n3__

United States

My writing is much more sophisticated than myself; isn’t that odd?

Message from Writer

Think of writing as word-smithing, language’s magic, and you? A wizard.

Published Work

Child Narrator

Lady Luck

      Crash.    
  “What are you doing?”  
      I jump up, pushing flowers aside. Mommy doesn’t like when I play in her garden, since it’s “too messy”, and I’m a “bad bath-taker”. I don’t like how the soap hurts my eyes, but I thought I should risk a bath for this. 
     “Well?” 
     I shrug, hiding my secret in my clenched fist. Mommy won’t get it if I tell her, so I don’t. 
     She sighs. Her forehead is all wrinkly, and her mouth is frowning. I guess that means she’s not happy with me. 
     I hug her, feeling her squishy belly warm my face. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’ll go inside.”
     Her face turns soft. “Soon, okay? I don’t have time to worry about you.” She walks back into our house, readjusting her apron. 
     When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly...

Child Narrator

Lady Luck

  1.       Crash. 
      “What are you doing?”  
      I jump up, pushing flowers aside. Mommy doesn’t like when I play in her garden, since it’s “too messy”, and I’m a “bad bath-taker”. I don’t like how the soap hurts my eyes, but I thought I should risk a bath for this. 
     “Well?” 
     I shrug, hiding my secret in my clenched fist. Mommy won’t get it if I tell her, so I don’t. 
     She sighs. Her forehead is all wrinkly, and her mouth is frowning. I guess that means she’s not happy with me. 
     I hug her, feeling her squishy belly warm my face. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’ll go inside.”
     Her face turns soft. “Soon, okay? I don’t have time to worry about you.” She walks back into our house, readjusting her apron. 
     When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly open...

One-Liner

Highway

When life seems to rush out of your grasp, pause for a moment to figure out if you are too fast for ambition. 

Destiny

Her dreams died, doused by tears. 

Child Narrator

Lady Luck

      Crash. 
      “What are you doing?”  
      I guiltily stand up, pushing flowers aside. Mommy doesn’t like when I play in her garden, since it’s “too messy”, and I’m a “bad bath-taker”. I don’t like how the soap hurts my eyes, but I had to risk a bath for this. 
     “Well?” 
     I shrug, hiding my secret in my clenched fist. Mommy won’t get it if I tell her, so I don’t. 
     She sighs. Her forehead is all wrinkly, and her mouth is unhappy. I guess that means she’s unhappy, too. 
     I hug her, feeling her squishy belly warm my face. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’ll go inside.”
     Her face turns soft. “Soon, okay? I don’t have time to worry about you.” She walks back into our home, readjusting her apron. 
     When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly open my palm,...

Child Narrator

Lady Luck

      Crash. 
      “What are you doing?”
      I guiltily stand up, pushing flowers aside. Mommy doesn’t like when I play in her garden, since it’s “too messy”, and I’m a “bad bath-taker”. I don’t like how the soap hurts my eyes, but I had to risk a bath for this. 
     “Well?” 
     I shrug, hiding my secret in my clenched fist. Mommy won’t get it if I tell her, so I don’t. 
     She sighs. Her forehead is all wrinkly, and her mouth is unhappy. I guess that means she’s unhappy, too. 
     I hug her, feeling her squishy belly warm my face. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’ll go inside.”
     Her face turns soft. “Soon, okay? I don’t have time to worry about you.” She walks back into our home, readjusting her apron. 
     When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly open my palm, shielding my...

Child Narrator

Lady Luck

      Crash. 
      “What are you doing?”
      I guiltily stand up, pushing flowers aside. Mommy doesn’t like when I play in her garden, since it’s “too messy”, and I’m a “bad bath-taker”. I don’t like how the soap hurts my eyes, but I had to risk a bath for this. 
     “Well?” 
     I shrug, hiding my secret in my clenched fist. Mommy won’t get it if I tell her, so I don’t. 
     She sighs. Her forehead is all wrinkly, and her mouth is unhappy. I guess that means she’s unhappy, too. 
     I hug her, feeling her squishy belly warm my face. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’ll go inside.”
     Her face turns soft. “Soon, okay? I don’t have time to worry about you.” She walks back into our home, readjusting her apron. 
     When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly open my palm, shielding my...

Micro Memoir

Pristine

Quiet flakes smother the whistling winds of the wood,
casting a sleepy spell on the burrowing rabbits and mice.
Songbirds ruffle their shiny feathers and huddle close,
waiting for the dreamy song of the moon to sing 
a lullaby—soft and haunting, the arrival of Night.

A dark shadow covers the stars—bats,
flapping their wings in a thunderous wave
on the hunt for life.
As the ice melts, water soaks into 
the trees’ veiny bark, trickling down the surface
and onto the padded earth, forming shallow depressions
and marring the unified blanket of snow.

Dreams, guided by the starry sky’s wishes,
glide lazily through the empty air—
some angry and twisted,
others solemn and curvy.
Silvery webs float across the air,
a spider’s work incomplete.

With the arrival of Day 
enters a lively,
jovial tune,
breathing song into
every crack, every corner.
Birds open their beaks and welcome
the lavish forest floor awash in color,
waking the world.

Refuge

Refuge

The distraction of
idle laughter and cheery
joy muting the mind. 

A compressed pillow
washed out and raggedy with
memories of woe. 

Stranded in a storm,
solace is solely found in
the infinite stars. 

Summer

Sticky, bright sunshine
dripping onto our fingers
tastes like something new.  

Come back by seven,”
Papa says to his children. 
Friends sparked by freedom. 

Hot, buggy evenings
fill with smoke, a crackle, pop.
A moth drawn to flame.
 
Fireflies flicker. 
Cicadas release the moon. 
Sleep now, day is gone. 

Refuge

Refuge

The distraction of
idle laughter and cheery
joy muting the mind. 

A compressed pillow
washed out and raggedy with
memories of woe. 

 

Starry Night

I start as a dream—
a floating wisp of reality
doused in moonshine. 

Best Friend

“He loves me.” Pluck. 
“He loves me not.” Pluck. 
“He loves me.” Pluck. 
“He...loves me not.” 
   I feel a tap on my shoulder. 
“Hey, what are you doing out here?” 
“...nothing.”
”I’ve been waiting for you.” He tilts his head towards the door. 
“For how long?” I draw a ragged breath. I don’t know what I mean. 
“For as long as you’ve been gone. I missed you.” 
I pat the mossy earth, grinning cheekily. “Wanna sit down?” 
“Sure.” 

Solemn Birthdays


Noon

Pip. Pip. Turtles yearn
To hatch, their wrinkled bodies 
Glistening with yolk. 

Afternoon

C. caretta waits,
Cool sand trickling over shells—
The solace of night. 

Evening

Hatchlings are restless,
Brown flippers inching towards
A foreboding beach. 

Ghost crabs haunt the surf;
Whispers of eager feeding
Sweep the scattered stone. 

Night  

A swimming frenzy. 
Telltale signs of the ocean
Herald liberty. 

Moonlight shimmers bright,
Illuminating a path
To the water’s coast. 


Midnight 

Street lamps pose as stars—
Man-made scythes reap a ghastly,
Unwanted harvest. 

Mollusks littered at
The road’s edge lure hatchlings 
To plastic garbage. 

Loggerheads are kings,
The largest of the hard shells. 
Hard, yet soft inside.


1 in 1,000:
The odds a survivor will 
Fully mature. 

Dawn

A weary mother
Treks past thousands of miles 
To her lonely shore. 

Her siblings have passed
And her birthplace looks different:
Bottle caps on streets. 

Morning

Hundreds of eggs sit
In silence, waiting for their
First moments of...

Childhood

Lucrative lilies
bob curiously atop
cascading currents,

reminding me of
flimsy paper boats set sail,
carried by laughter.
 

Landscape of the Mind

The tide may sweep in,
waves coiling with pent-up discomfort
scattering miscellaneous shells 
and battering lichen-covered rocks
slick with slime and algae.

The wind may rush in,
tendrils of cold seeping through
the woven threads of flamboyant scarves,
rustling the fallen leaves and blowing 
dandelion puffs, carrying seeds 
to a world they didn’t know they were ready for. 

Eventually, 
everything slows,
and 
stops. 

The calmed sea
draws back into the depths
of its own imagination,
erasing all of the castles and bottle caps,
leaving a fresh, new landscape. 

People are People

People are people. 
That should be reason enough
to treat them with love. 
 

2019

Not a Year, But a Life

1. A stomachache (from laughing too hard)
2. Tears (of overwhelming emotion)
3. Struggle (to overcome and endure)
4. Heartbreak (so we may learn to love) 
5. Growth (even drifting from those held close)
6. A voice (to speak out for your beliefs)
7. Passion (to inspire and motivate; to break)
8. Life (so we may appreciate our accidental existence)

Invisible Cities

Arcadia: Peace and Tranquil

  In Arcadia, the moon glimmers from the depths of the blue pools dotting the landscape. There is a sense of dead calm, a smothering tranquility that is the result of all being not great, not good, but just-barely okay. Fine. The flowers and trees grow sideways, as though if they reach, they could touch the other side of the world and escape. Children still blow dandelion seeds, though they are prickly. And sharp. However, like four-leaf clovers, they’re lucky, so children pluck them anyway, from the solace of the watery ground and comfort of their tangled roots, lifting them up towards a heavenly grave. 

Strike

This Country is Built on Tears

    The U.S did not start out as a predominantly white community. It started with the Native Americans, who crossed over on a land bridge during an ice age step by step. In the Age of Exploration, the U.S. wasn’t “white,” it was French and Spanish and eventually Chinese and Indian and Black and so many other things, not the racist society it is now. Though our country was built on the idea of immigration, on equity for all peoples, we refuse to let Central Americans across our border. And for what? This country is built on hope; this country is built on tears. 

Anything: A Haiku Collection

A simple figment
of your imagination;
truly limitless.

A drop of pigment
splattered on textured canvas 
can be all you desire. 

The entire world
is in your grasp, all you must
do is look within. 
 

The Vistas Beyond

Monday Morning

  A grayish-brown streak flew up a tree—a squirrel, scampering about as the sun awoke. A woman, bouncing on the balls of her feet, waited for a car to pass before continuing her jog, nodding at the working man who drove it. A teenager, slouching under the weight of her books, idly trudged to her bus stop, starting her day. 

Polar Opposite

Ordinary Acts of Kindness

     A lady pushed her grocery cart up to the cash register. Her toddler sat in the cart, drooling over the  colorful candy lining the racks. His mom tactfully shifted to block his view, placing her items on the conveyor one by one. 
   “How has your day been?” The cashier asked, a welcoming smile on his face. The lady sighed; just thinking about her day made her exhausted. 
  “Tiring.” she said, short and abrupt. The cashier could tell that she was overwhelmed with her daily life and inwardly frowned. 
  “Your total is 138.98. You may insert your credit card now.” As she fumbled around in her purse, muttering about how she swore she had put it right there, he noticed her son staring at the candy. What a cute baby, he thought, smiling. He put her bags in her cart as she swiped her card. 
   In the parking lot, the baby held on to a...

The Flow of Life: A Haiku Collection

A leaf bobs on
the water, drifting where the 
current takes it. 

It violently swirls,
caught in the rapids of its
frenzied emotions. 

It slows to a stop
beside the ocean, waiting
to explore the world. 

Like a Bird: A Haiku Collection

Chirps greet me at dawn,
sunlight warms my sleepy soul,
and I am awake. 

I want to dream, but
I hear the woodpecker’s drill
and know I must sing.  

Feathers are funny. 
So easy to soar above,
yet easy to drown. 

Night embraces me. 
I am an owl, and this 
is where I must go. 

To Forget her Troubles

She spun round and round,
her arms outstretched with wonder,
her skirt billowing with grace. 

She  closed her eyes and danced,
danced until there was nothing left 
but the beat of her heart and 
the dizzying,
electrifying music. 

A Change in Perspective

  A brave little pebble skips
along the water, free like a bird
until it slows, 
submerged and heavy,
sinking to the depths of its confined grave. 

  A sea dries up,
awash in its own emotions. 
The miscellaneous sediments,
exposed to the air once more,
relish the warm sun,
relish life. 

  But, the sun is harsh, 
its glare cementing stones together. 
Even so, they survive, 
the unity of their experience
breeding persistence. 

  The wind tickles the slab, 
dropping small pebbles on it every so often. 
The slab doesn’t mind; 
the pebbles are so tiny. 
Something so tiny can’t do much, can it?

Your World in Three Senses

Evening: about 6:30 pm

   This is a snapshot of a few minutes of an afternoon I’ve recently had. It effectively portrays numerous elements of my world: school, culture, and routine. Imagine you’re sitting on a leather couch, feet curled up and laptop balancing precariously on top. 

     Muffled actors argue animatedly in the background, having had a moment of anagnorisis. They’re too stubborn to admit it though, as always. 
      Click. Clack. The pointed jabs at a keyboard punctuate the last words of a lab abstract. Just in time, too, for the distinct flavors of palak ki sabji wafts through the living room. It’s a medley of masala, spices, and spinach. A sea of green, tossing and turning with every turn of the fork. Delicious. 
    

A Change in Perspective

  A brave little pebble skips
along the water, free like a bird
until it slows, 
submerged and heavy,
and sinking to the depths of its grave. 

  A sea dries up,
unable to contain its own emotions. 
The miscellaneous sediments,
exposed to the air once more
relish the warm sun, relish life. 

  But the sun is harsh, 
its glare cementing stones together. 
The stones survive because 
they are stronger together. 

  The wind tickles the slab, 
dropping small pebbles on it 
every so often. 
The slab doesn’t mind; 
the pebbles are so tiny. 
Something so tiny can’t do much,
can it?

Once the World Was...

A Polar Universe

There is a cavernous Nothing,
no color, no sound, no sight. 
It yearns for something
wishing so hard and thinking so hard and praying so hard that suddenly, there is light. 
A small, tiny pinprick of pure energy, so bright that it can withstand the loneliness of the world. And yet, it wavers, for what is the value of light without dark? With this, Darkness is born, leeching at the edges of Light’s glare. A battle ensues, for  the loss of loneliness breeds competition. It’s the natural law of the universe. Through Competition, hate is born, blossoming within Light and Darkness.
But what is the purpose of hate without love, so Love appears, mystical and wonderful and painful all at once. 
From Love blooms many things: Anger, Greed, Compassion. Through Love, the universe matures into a complex being of blacks and whites and grays and everything in between, for what is the value of one if you have never...

Your World in Three Senses

Evening: about 6:30 pm

   This is a snapshot of a few minutes of an afternoon I’ve recently had. It effectively portrays numerous elements of my world: school, culture, and routine. Imagine you’re sitting on a leather couch, feet curled up and laptop balancing precariously on top. 

     Muffled actors argue animatedly in the background, having had a moment of anagnorisis. They’re too stubborn to admit it though, as always. 
      Click. Clack. The pointed jabs at a keyboard punctuating the last words of a lab abstract. Just in time, too, for the distinct flavors of palak ki sabji wafts through the living room. It’s a medley of masala, spices, and spinach. A sea of green, tossing and turning with every turn of the fork. Delicious. 
    

Why I Write

A Lens into Emotion

    I write as an escape. Sometimes, to avoid confronting myself. I write as a way to see what I’m feeling, as though me and my emotions are detached. Sometimes, emotions do not have a name. Some feelings are too complex to be bottled up into a simple phrase. Some feelings need a story, a plot as complex as the emotion itself.

     However, some feelings are simple, and writing provides a way to see them objectively. I am not being foolish nor unfair, though this character is quite so. Perhaps they were wrong, and are too prideful to admit their hubris. Pride is their downfall, but it will not be mine. Or will it? Am I this character? Is this my story? Or is this a snippet of one event from a forced perspective? Sometimes, my reason for writing is as simple as this—to see something familiar as something new.