MarSan

Mexico

They are leaning out for love and they wil lean that way forever.

/Sort of active/
You can find me in Prose.
I decided to enjoy my last few months here :)
If you ever want to talk, my comments and dms are open.

Message from Writer

They/Them

Published Work

Copper and Gorse (or the one in which I say Goodbye)

It is 12:49 am where I'm writing from. It's been three or four years, from what I can remember. I write this kilometers away from the room I wrote my first piece in. In approximately nine days, my account will be deleted. 

All I can find myself thinking is, thank you. Often times, writing is a place for solace. Having a place to share this solace is one of the greatest blessings that have ever been wished upon me. I admit, I write this thank you note without fully knowing who I'm addressing it to. The people I've been lucky enough to stumble upon in this site have slowly been drifting away, new faces filling their space. So I guess I'm addressing the face who will fill my own space. 

I hope so many more stories get shared here. I hope so many more young writers get to feel inspired, get to feel connected. Likewise, I hope my writing made...

GirlsGirlsGirls

Whenever I lose myself, whenever my words feel ill-fitted in my mouth and my reflection comes out as a default setting, I think of girls. I think of all the girls I've known. Those I haven't. Those I hopefully will. The mystical muses that will live in my heart as long as the poor son of a bitch beats another day. Those I hope I get to immortalize in words so they live in other hearts as well. 

I think of abandoned friendships and the words that I've buried with them. I think of the brightest mind of my generation, spending her time reading teen novels and distancing herself from our world until I couldn't reach her anymore. I'm still hoping for the day someone does, and selfishly wish it's me. Everything I said is now buried in my old backyard, scented with lavender and her laundry soap. Everything I want to say now wilts before reaching her, it tastes...

Waking Up.

it will be morning soon. this is the first time you've lived away from home. it is always close, the golden of the window. the breathing of the street. you thought you knew a thing about solitude until now. you thought you knew yourself until now. there is a language, and a life between you and the world, it seems. in the loneliest, slowest of times, you find love in every bit between sentences. you suck the tender parts of life and make sure some get stuck between your gums, so you may turn them into art eventually. all your tools, all your hands, all your eyes for writing are worlds away. but you're resourceful. you prod and pull until you find beauty inside the scrawny kid bawling her eyes out in your kitchen table. you stare and think "Behold! Tears! I get to see them again". you scrape wonder out of shared pinterest boards, late calls and half-finished messages....

Insomnia Tales.

I haven’t slept before 5 am for the past three months. Every night I say it will be the last and every day I wake up after 3 pm. Sometimes I think it can’t be fixed anymore. It’s a loop, I’ll just come back again. I’ve tried, I’ve tried time and time again. And suddenly it’s too late. Suddenly I’m tucked into bed and all I can think of is how I can’t fall asleep, how I have so much to do and how I’d rather be doing that than lying in the same dark spot for hours until it’s 5 again.

I go to sleep knowing I’ll wake up feeling like shit, I want to throw up each and every night. When the sun rises, I ask it to forgive me. I ask it to let me go without sleep. Sometimes I think it’s just because I was too irresponsible to fix it some time ago, that it must...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition: 2021

Predisposition for Pain.

goddamn, do I know the name of love.
and have I basked in the grip of grief.
I’ve dined in between death and horror,
made them both ache for relief.

I’ve adored, praised, begged on my knees.
Sizzled hot and boiled cold.
Cracked and poured remains of truth,
over girls who bared their teeth.

Twist me into your confessional, hard-hearted,
tonight I’m dark wood, incense, your first sin.
I’ll bow my head. I’ll kiss your temples.
Tonight I’m comfort, mercy, sweet water and skin,
And you, you’re the world here,
Tonight, self-willed, you’re free.

Word is not blade, nor hand, nor pen,
It is life itself tearing, pulling, sobbing for peace
Word is our future, our memory,
word is the place I’ll lay you to sleep in.

goddamn, have i got a story to tell
Have I lost and loved and grieved,
I’ve had breakfast next to your dark eyes,
they both taught me to plead.

The one in which failure is okay.

As my time drips over my body, a new night is born. So terribly close to the past, so desperate near the future. I am not bad in these moments. I am not bad with my chest bare. I take her words, offered in self-defense. I cradle them, for she’s my mirror. Failure is okay. It sits foreign in my thoughts. She’s never seen my face, yet I feel safe in her picture. I feel safe when I can’t see myself. She’s blonde, I think. The others are maybe brunette. My literature professor is short, I think. My life won’t end inside this town. I swear.

I swear Failure is okay. She writes it three times, I understand one. I am not wrong in these pajamas, I am not ill-fitted in my name. The numbers that correspond, that represent, are not inside it. I am moment; I am not quite a person yet. But it’s a new night. So...

about fantasy, heartache and the one i still write for.

she loves me with the tenderness one has for a particularly tragic attempt,
she leaves me with the certainty that i will break without her
she leans down to kiss me and all i can taste is
“you’re my tortured mind, my bleeding wound, mine to keep”
and i yield, i play the part, i’m hers to break
hers to amend

she does not know that i am all bone and steel
that my tragedy is locked tight inside a heart she can’t reach
she will not know of the theater, of the circus
that goes into making her come back to me, every time
still, she burrows her hands into my chest, plays with the lock
i let her, when she’s this close i can breathe easier

i do not know what she’s made of, i recur to fantasy
i think silk, moonstone, i say, ground, thunder,
when i lean up to kiss her, she must taste all these ...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition: 2021

Predisposition for Pain.

There’s no sorrowful night like the one spent on your knees, 
as the one in which you’re forgetting your name
in which you're stitching a new one

no night as deep-buried as the one in which you cry your saint’s names
over and over
even if you suspect they forgot you long ago
gentle hands and whispers caress your face by day
and you weep by night
lungs become ocean
hope hardens into blade 

there’s no place that comforts a face without a name, 
and in this chapter of waiting, these seconds of hesitation, 
you’d breathe easier if no one saw you, no one met you, 
what is transformation inside a home?
what is it called, but a circus show? 

As you breathe in and out, you realize you’re scared. 
You’re just scared. 
For how long?
It settles beneath your eyelids every night, 
scared and sorrowful you sit. 
alone and loved you wait.
And the wait stretches until morning.

about fantasy, heartache and the one i still write for.

she loves me with the tenderness one has for a particularly tragic attempt,
she leaves me with the certainty that i will break without her
she leans down to kiss me and all i can taste is
“you’re my tortured mind, my bleeding wound, mine to keep”
and i yield, i play the part, i’m hers to break
hers to amend

she does not know that i am all bone and steel
that my tragedy is locked tight inside a heart she can’t reach
she will not know of the theater, of the circus
that goes into making her come back to me, every time
still, she burrows her hands into my chest, plays with the lock
i let her, when she’s this close i can breathe easier

i do not know what she’s made of, i recur to fantasy
i think silk, moonstone, i say, ground, thunder,
when i lean up to kiss her, she must taste all these ...

letting go.

does your pain curl or purr?
is it comfortable now?
you know it is, you know joy never lasts quite enough.
that it demands balance, and god, you’re tired.
joy demands effort. joy demands pink vulnerability.
sorrow is in your morning coffee, it kisses you back home.
sorrow says “i’m here” and means it.
You’ve never known bliss that makes promises like that.
of course it’s ironic, of fucking course it is.
that’s the whole point.
rock bottom doesn’t seem as painful as what comes before
as sharp stone that tears during the fall
un-bottom is too far, it is a tightrope, it is out of sight
does it exist.
does it curl or purr. will it ever be comfortable.
you’ve struggled to gather the bits of yourself
and letting go of any, changing them for new bits
it makes you hold on tighter.
it makes you remember you’re alive.

A Cheeky 4. Helena Herpentaria

If there’s one thing she knows about herself, is that she’s nosy. People never seem to tire of informing her. “Get your own cup of coffee to stick your nose into,” the girls at the office spit, crushing morning into a fine grain. “Don’t talk to me about something I haven’t told you about” the ones at the cabaret are less aggressive, more dangerous. They’ve never liked her much around here. Nine Abadón doesn’t wish to be known, less alone told. Helena rises to the challenge.
As she stands near the flower archway tonight, high heels in hand, she’s practically buzzing. A wedding. The wedding. The salon is covered in white garden roses, and she can smell the disapproval of the bride’s family from her spot. Beautiful Luz smiles as if she doesn’t know what else to do, standing in the middle of the hall like a particularly anxious porcelain doll.
“Herpentaria!” Martina calls out, her smile fat with...

My pieces, scattered.

i want to push myself so hard that I break.
want to make burn-out look easy.
look like fun.
to ask and ask and ask and give and give,
until I can’t anymore.
i want to reach my limit because the wait is killing me.
i want to get consumed before time gets a piece.
consumed by my passion, by something meaningful.
consumed by anything other than my mind.
i want to know my limits by their names,
to know they’re bigger than anyone else’s,
crave for the sweet promise of self-destruction,
want to burst open
and let everyone see what’s been inside all along,
let them know what hasn’t.
pray for anyone to give enough of a shit to even look.
i want to know what the fuck comes next
what i am supposed to be waiting for.
to know if my pieces, scattered over the floor,
to know if they’re unlike anything you’ve seen before.
to know if...

predisposition for pain.

motherfucker, do i know the name of love.
and have i basked in the grip of grief.
i’ve dined in between death and horror,
made them both ache for relief.

i’ve adored, praised, begged on my knees.
sizzled hot and boiled cold.
cracked and poured remains of truth,
over girls who bared their teeth.

twist me into your confessional, hard-hearted
tonight i’m dark wood, incense, your first sin.
i’ll bow my head, I’ll kiss your temples.
tonight I’m comfort, mercy, sweet water and skin.
and you, you’re the world here.
tonight, self-willed, you’re free.

word is not blade, nor hand, nor pen.
it is life itself tearing, pulling, sobbing for peace.
word is our future, our memory,
word is the place i’ll lay you to sleep in.

motherfucker, have i got a story to tell.
have i lost and loved and grieved.
i’ve had breakfast next to your soft eyes,
they both taught me to plead.
 

Postcard.

The postcard smells of glossy paper between my hands. I stare at my nails, clipped and nail polish chipped. “We miss you, sport!” is written in careful calligraphy, no stamp. On the other side is a painting of my hometown in violet and pink tones. The painter is the brother of my defunct art teacher. The thought raises goosebumps on my skin, my stomach churns in discontent. This feeling seems to plague me lately: when I think of my friends getting together, when friends of the family speak of my work, when someone recognizes me on the street. The world closes down on me, folds until its limits end in this town. I long for the days in which no one will get to keep a part of me. Not until I’m ready, at least.

She told me she thought of us soulmates the other day, and I cried myself to sleep with a helpless yell stuck in my gums....

How to live a well-lived, joyful life.

The computer light washes his face in a neutral blue, the rest of the room is pitch black. He allows himself to close his eyes, tight shut. He imagines the words in the e-mail dancing over his face, how to build a well-lived, joyful life, settling comfortably in between the shadows.

His hands, gentle, gentle, gentle, trace a slow path towards his eyelids. He touches himself as you would when loving a stranger. Eyelashes flutter against the digits, how to build a well-lived, joyful life, and the crevice formed by the movement is warm against his skin. Surely, he must be turning into stone, greenery sprouting out of the pores. A strangely shaped mountain, his eyes a cozy cave for animals to hibernate in. He feels the water in him waking up, groggily beginning to trickle down to re-shape him. At this height, the wind would chill his bones. Now it slips in between his ridges, it tickles.
...

The big, the inside and the ugly.

Once again, i’ve lost my writing.
but this is not a tale about hopelessness.
i’ve lost my future.
it is stuck between teaching classes at stuffy universities, and exposing myself to a world that’s quick to bite, and quicker to toss away. Its sweater has been caught in the door handle of exposing itself to itself.
i’ve lost my hand, lost it not as in I forgot it inside the subway, but lost it as in I’m sure it’s somewhere in there, between the half written essays and the inside that’s poured out of my head. the inside i think, is called anxiety. ive been learning how to name recently.

but i haven’t learned how to search, and thus my writing got lost. somedays i call it my home, i scream out and think it poetic. when i call it my home, i know its when its not there. i have a penchant for loving what won’t love back.

after...

Our Purgatory.

Won’t you tell us about that corner in that year?
Where was it? No, I know this one. Right next to the auditorium, I’ve slipped on those steps a couple of times. That’s where my fear of crowds was born in, that and slippery shoes. So the door, right? How was it? I know it as well, now that we’re getting into it. It was metallic, painted a chipped ugly brown. Hanging from it was a paper plate transmuted into an acrylic color wheel, and yellow and red and blue are primary. It’s hung with thick thread.

Alright so the leaves and flowers. They were from the tree, right? In the middle of the mini golf field, where you used to sit on top of the pipelines and watch your braids through the windows. The hairs poked out and tickled your cheeks, and you undid them as soon as you could. Mom didn’t like it. Mom was patient. So the...

predisposition for pain.

motherfucker, do i know the name of love.
and have i basked in the grip of grief.
i’ve dined in between death and horror,
made them both ache for relief.
i’ve adored, praised, begged on my knees.
sizzled hot and boiled cold.
cracked and poured remains of truth,
over girls who bared their teeth.
twist me into your confessional, hard-hearted
tonight i’m dark wood, incense, your first sin.
i’ll bow my head, I’ll kiss your temples.
tonight I’m comfort, mercy, sweet water and skin.
and you, you’re the world here.
tonight, self-willed, you’re free.
word is not blade, nor hand, nor pen.
it is life itself tearing, pulling, sobbing for peace.
word is our future, our memory,
word is the place i’ll lay you to sleep in.
motherfucker, have i got a story to tell.
have i lost and loved and grieved.
i’ve had breakfast next to your soft eyes,
they both taught me to plead.
 

Quarantine Burn Out.

Oh, how I wish I was anywhere right now. Somewhere.
To be perched on top of the smallest hill, to be heard when I fall.
God, I wish my poured eyes in a cup, in a piece of paper.
Anywhere where they can be felt.
I want a morning filled to the brim, a morning drumming against ribcage.
I want to stop planning, stop looking and know where I go.
God, I want a future I can see at the bottom of the lake.
At the top of who are you? who are you? who are you?
I crave my bones, covered in 15-year-old fat skin.
Touched by a divine, human, stranger hand.
I crave the hope that comes with being so stupid and forgiven.
I need to know what kind of beast I already am.
Made of morning, crushed bone, lake water and time.
I need to know what day it is.

Silver and Crimson.

My distant, my sorrow, my city of light. The promise I whispered to the pier was buried between corners, hardened until it turned into a pebble. It's lost inside children's fat hands and thrown into the lake every day. Over and over again. I cried the first time I saw the streets, I couldn't help but to whisper "Have you already forgotten me?". But it hadn't. And so I went back over and over again. Until I couldn't.

I shine in silver and crimson as the stars are snubbed one by one. The world is an intruder in my Goya attempt at a person. And in the vastness, I am alone. I dress up for the occasion anyway, eye bags playing the part of boats, flashes of lipstick turning into rubies, resilience as a hairpiece. But there's no sight I can hold on to, so memories will do for now. Memories of rich chocolate cake shared with beautiful girls, family dinners...

The Waiting.

There's no sorrowful night like the one spent on your knees, 
as the one in which you're forgetting your name and
stitching a new one. as the one in which you cry your
saint's names over and over, even if you suspect they forgot you 
long ago. gentle hands and whispers caress your face by day, and you
weep by night, because your lungs are an ocean, hope turns into
blade. 

there's no place that comforts a face without a name, 
and in this moment of waiting, these seconds of hesitation, 
you'd breathe easier if no one saw you, no one met you, 
what is transformation inside a home? what is, but a 
circus show? 
As you breathe in and out, you realize you're scared. 
You're just scared. 
For how long? It settles beneath your eyelids every night, 
scared and sorrowful you sit. 
alone and loved you wait. 
And the wait stretches until morning.

 

Woodchipper.

"Take the crooked path behind the church, then follow it until you've left town. You'll see the strawberry fields, take one as a gift. Keep going forward until you're at the entrance of the forest. There, underneath the weeping willows, you'll find a fox but don't initiate a conversation with it, for it is a vicious critic and will poke fun at your clothes. Follow the toadstools until you feel tired enough. If the woodchipper is feeling kind that day, they will come out and find you. If not, don't even bother."

These are the first instructions you get in Appercott, they're written in a small note left in the windowsill by the widow.  She knew why you were here before you even asked, perhaps even before you knew. You mull over this information during breakfast, understanding the words but not their meaning. You're too shy to ask any of the waiters, god forbid querying the innkeeper. So you rent...

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

What hides under a stray god's sleeves.

You carve into yourself an image of love, even if the book in your pocket forbids you from idolatry. Your scars are named Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel. They bow before the Lord, before their father and creator. You wish you could rip yourself of the crown of thorns, wash away the cinder that holy fire leaves behind. And yet, they serve as your reminders, as proof that heaven doesn't live past pearly gates but inside a survivor's breath. Holy is the place in which your archangels heal, in which a stray god falls to their knees and exhales a sorrowful "Hallelujah". 

Baking, knitting, dancing, writing, painting

The pier seems to be permanently stuck in a purple sky. The mercilessly cold waves crack as they throw themselves around, leaving clamshells and broken bottles upon the rotting planks. In the distance, the lighthouse sticks out like a sore thumb. It smells like candied apples, salt, and sardines, and it makes the tourists gag. You come down every morning to paint, this you have learned since you were an infant. You mix the paint with fish oil, wipe your hands on your battered jacket. This is your childhood home, and you've never felt it until now. So you bury your easel into the rocks and hear a crack somewhere. The fishermen turn to stare at you, their eyes shining with recognition. Your hands are splintered, but you paint the whole day anyway. Lavender, orchid, lilac, violet, and mauve pass by and you don't manage to capture a single one. Every time you think you've got it down, the landscape sheds...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

A thank you letter to my mother's hairdresser.

To Rocío (I really hope that's how you write your name), 


How's the salon holding up? Well, I say salon and mean the little room at the side of your parent's house. I ask how's it holding up and mean that I pray every night you're not one of the small names who will be erased after all of this is over. And I write you this letter and I mean thank you. But you already know that. 

You already know that because you already know my mother. Sometimes I wonder if you know her better than I do, but I quickly convince myself that we're all just trying to unravel a different face of hers. She remains elusive, despite being seen. She stays hidden because she is found. She knows her own details so well, she forgets to look at the bigger picture sometimes. What do you see in her, through the heat of a curling iron? When crafting...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

A thank you letter to my mother's hairdresser.

To Rocío, I really hope that's how you write your name, 


How's the salon holding up? Well, I say salon and mean the little room at the side of your parent's house. I ask how's it holding up and mean that I pray every night you're not one of the small names who will be erased after all of this is over. And I write you this letter and I mean thank you. But you already know that. 

You already know that because you already know my mother. Sometimes I wonder if you know her better than I do, but I quickly convince myself that we're all just trying to unravel a different face of hers. She remains elusive, despite being seen. She stays hidden because she is found. She knows her own details so well, she forgets to look at the bigger picture sometimes. What do you see in her, through the heat of a curling iron? When crafting...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

A thank you letter to my mother's hairdresser.

To Rocío, I really hope that's how you write your name, 


How's the salon holding up? Well, I say salon and mean the little room at the side of your parent's house. I ask how's it holding up and mean that I pray every night you're not one of the small names who will be erased after all of this is over. And I write you this letter and I mean thank you. But you already know that. 

You already know that because you already know my mother. Sometimes I wonder if you know her better than I do, but I quickly convince myself that we're all just unraveling her different faces. She stays elusive, despite being seen. She stays hidden because she is found. She knows her own details so well, she forgets to look at the bigger picture sometimes. What do you see in her, when curling her hair? When crafting intricate masks for her to wear? I...

July is burning my fingers... or #askthewriter

Oh god. 
You already know I got the idea from Anha. 

Right, so since I'm trying to connect to more people here, I thought it'd be nice to answer some things about myself (been though I don't have nearly enough followers for this sjsjsjs). Anyway. If you have any questions about my writing/personal life/personality (?), ask away in the comments! The more oddly specific, the better (literally, please ask me my top 5 unnamed feelings or a list of the best food courts I've been in). 

So, yea that's it :) thank you for even reading tbh 
ACAB 

Waxing Crescent.

"I'm leaving,"

Red knows his face better than anyone else, has every inch mapped out. Sure, he can't feel the finer details, like the color of his eyes or the freckles that sprout during summer. But that doesn't stop him from knowing, feeling, each one of his expressions. 

And now, as Rising stands before him with final words spilling out of his mouth, he can't begin to read him. A world has landed at their feet, making the living room seem infinite and too far away. He jumps out the couch, won't stop pacing, can't when the floor is crumbling at every step. 

"It won't be easy, I know. For both of us," Rising pauses, his voice is firm. He doesn't come close. "But you knew it was coming. I need it. And so do you"

"You don't get to tell me what I need," he spits, turning sour. It's barely above a whisper, but he listens anyway....

Shadh.

Let's assume everything happened the way it wasn't supposed to. Suppose you could tell when to quit, drove a little slower, and understood the meaning of "too far". No, knew it. So you marked the 17th of June in your calendar and packed up. You forgot your toothbrush and answered nobody's call, and god, the feeling on your chest. You were breathing. 

And then you drove down to the middle of nowhere, the shore of fuck knows where. The first night before you could decide you did the wrong thing, the neighbor knocked with a pot of honey in one arm, and a plump baby in the other. It was the ugliest baby you'd seen yet, but you took it into your arms anyways. The neighbor, she didn't ask if she could come in, and somehow knew where the dishes were as she made dinner for two. Bangers and mash, tangerines, and Oolong tea with honey. You fought back tears...

Too Much.

do you know how it happened?, 
it was during one restless night, they're a common occurrence now
every night, each dawn, 
i try to pull the home-grown thorns from outside my head
and they'll cling, because every part of me loves so deeply, 
holds so tightly. holds too much
even when it doesn't mean to. 

i wake up sweating, terrified, late. 
and i face myself time and time, and god i can't write it down.
i cant write nor speak, so i yell. 
all the blank pages, one unfinished after another,
not art block, but perhaps death. who died? who am i mourning? 
who am i always mourning when i haven't begun to live?

I sing "So long, Marianne" because I yearn for a laugh, 
at the fact that i need to live for so many but myself, 
that the last time I felt alive, was inside a pitch dark theater, 
at a singer's cry, frighteningly beautiful and so much....

Tiny Update: BLM, Pride Month and Youth

I usually stay away from unravelling myself in front of others, especially around here. But right now is neither the moment to stick to tradition nor make it about me. 

To all my black peers in this site, I love you and your lives matter. They matter today, and tomorrow, and they always have. They always will. It shouldn't have taken countless deaths for people to realize this fact. In times like these, we should stay as close as possible, and protect those who are the most vulnerable. BLACK. LIVES. MATTER.

I'm not close enough to support you directly, but I'm currently researching and sharing information as to how to help from a distance. 

To the BLM allies, here are some ways: 

https://cdgard.tumblr.com/post/619971681849589761 (For passive donations, please don't skip the ads to the video. There are also links to places where you can donate)
https://blacklivesmatter2020.home.blog/2020/06/03/black-lives-matter-how-to-help/ (Guide on how to help, includes petitions, donation links, helpful Instagram accounts)
-...

Playwriting Competition 2020

Meet me at Dewey's.

 
Scene 1
A convenience store next to a roadside gas station, illuminated by white LED lights. Outside, a pink neon sign reads “Dewey’s”. On the left side, a door that leads into a small canteen, inside patrons sit and talk in low murmurs, their chatter is drowned out by a pop song coming out the speakers. They appear tired, some of them have suitcases by their feet. No one really knows where they are, but they won’t stay for long. By all accounts, it’s a place meant to be forgotten. 
 
At the side of the cookie aisle, a YOUNG WOMAN grabs a polystyrene cup and pours coffee on it. Her hair is disheveled, she wears a stained shirt paired up with baggy jeans. She turns towards the audience while fidgeting with a sugar packet, her brows furrowed and stare lost. 
 
An EMPLOYEEenters through a back door and starts wiping the counter, the YOUNG WOMAN is startled....

Atlas pleaded. #agustdv2020

your hands are bone-white and clean, 
eyes of a lamb seen through a shattered mirror,
when moonlight caresses your face, 
they flash as platinum as your rugged dagger, 

his back is taut, it tenses under your touch, 
under the weight of everything and nothing and more, 
they call him atlas, and the fool, he believes it, 
the world keeps him in place, a glorified candle-holder

and you've never longed for chaos, for smoke,
your porcelain skin would be besmirched by crimson, 
the dagger is filth on your spotless picture, 
and when he stares at you his eyes soften,
even if they don't have the right to

regret is pushed back to the furthest corner
when the man who holds the world pleads for mercy, 
his wide eyes are as pale as your hands were this morning, 
he recites a litany of why?'s, and really why? 

and in your fascination with the red, you think
because i could, because i can  ...

Definitions.

EYE
/i/
noun
1. coal and dust cloud my eyes. i can't seem to ever stop rustling around, breaking and pulling my way through. my pupils are not the ocean, even less a pond. still, ripples form at any strong wind, they overboard. they stain their way to my hands. 
similar:    pebbles -  swans - ballade no. 4

2. they sink with the rest of my face, blink and blink and... my lashes won't stop raining. over my cheeks and clothes. they peel away, dandelions blown by sighs. its not as poetic as expected. there are wrinkles there too, but my glasses wouldn't let you see more than you need to. 

3. and what happens when they're bare? there's never been stars inside, the vault is locked tight. i lit up fires inside, so they always burn dark or golden. lumps of coal paint the bags underneath, they keep me afloat. a twisted steam machine. when you look at them,...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

When Nobody's Looking.

My name is twenty-four letters that will never be pronounced the same way. 

It is a promise that I haven't been able to fulfill.

It's the secret that my great-grandmother hid for almost a century.

It's carved on the wanderer sword she left at the end of her trip. 

It is the cacophony of the noises that have seen it grow.

The thunderous symphony of narrow streets, tianguis, sparrows and patrols.

The murmurs of my grandmother when praying and when crunching bay leaves.


My name is pronounced as

                               Where do you come from?


But if you speak it with an accent, it's a


                             Could you repeat it, miss?


And when it is lost, it turns into any lullaby you could summon.

When you already know it well, you don't even...

Beautiful Laurie Moe.

Beautiful Laurie Moe is found by her sister. Her legs are thinner than ever, lips flushed a heartbreaking blue.

The girls at the café won't shut up about it, their eyes bloodshot and scared. They don't hide in fear of sharing the same faith, but rather quiver at the thought of having it pinned on them. 

The Sheriff's list of suspects is too long, and his cup of coffee too small. He marks it off as suicide. 

There's no funeral. Spring keeps them too busy for that. The town can't even spare a glance at the overcrowded cemetery. Flowers are left for beautiful girls, life goes on. 

As old Ruth put it, "A small town is no place for tragedies." 

 

Purple Nail, Chipped Days. #Samina50

Bit of an update on how it's been.

I slammed a car door over one of my nails two weeks ago. 

I was chatting with my father (Don't know if you can really call that 'chatting', I can barely hold three words together these days), we'd just returned from buying the groceries and I swear I tried. I tried to follow protocol, remember what's supposed to be drilled into my skull, just use half of a neuron and take my finger out before closing it. And yet I didn't. The door made a dry sound against my finger. 

I stared at it, slow seconds bursting my skin open. I maybe reacted too late, yanking it away with the grace of a dying dog. As an emotional person, feelings don't usually catch me unguarded, but the panic that rose through my spinal cord, that I was not ready for. I spent the rest of the weekend staring at it, sobbing in...

I, Icarus.

The truth turns you into someone else. 
Hardens around tender freckles, sand turns to crystal, 
And suddenly she's not her, but a myth. 
And you two are not who you've been, but a long-forgotten story. 
A tragedy told in two acts, narrated by just one. 

I beg of you, to let me end us gently 
For I know my wings are glued by candlewax, 
For I know how saltwater will taste in my lungs

Sol, I don't know what will kill me,
I can't tell this time, not anymore, 
I, Icarus, covered in sand, washed by the shore, 
I, Icarus, trapped inside the labyrinth, starved

I beg of you, to let me end us viciously
For I know I'd rather die by your flames, 
For I want to know how you'll taste in my lips

Can you sing me the ways you'll mourn me? 
The last encore of a fool who passed as an angel, 
When they ask you, when...

09/03

The women in my country cry out in violet and green. 
They live through whip, through rotten spring,
through thistle and political parties. 

In their lungs, they breathe in names that aren't pronounced anymore.
Names that are painted in blood, that are sewed on skin. 
Names of sister, daughter, mother, and friend. 

They're huddled in minuscule subway wagons, 
Painted pink to let everyone know
how their existence gets squandered in small spaces, 
How they've been denied of their own bodies. 

The women in my country wear their dresses proudly at fifteen, 
But they hide in shame at their first period, 
They bloom between cobblestones, inside corners, 
They speak in tongues, survive their way through secrets. 

And they've got voices that cut through the silence, 
They sing in a tone that tells the same stories each time, 
A clear whisper that carries history, the real one this time, 
A hymnal that told me their names and where they've been. 

A country...

Vanilla Box Cake.

Phoenix, Arizona. 
February 3rd, 1975. 

"God knows how long he's been outside," Rosita mused, looking through the curtains. She was still in her pajamas, an oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a pair of old pants that barely reached her ankles. "I'd bet he didn't sleep a wink last night." 

The Butcher nodded from his place at the kitchen table. He was a man of few words, simply because he often found himself not knowing what to say. This morning was one of those occasions. He limited himself to scratching his cheek and shrugging. 

Rosita, on the other hand, seemed to take it upon herself to make up for her father's lack of words. She rolled her sleeves, leaving the windows open. It was earlier than it should've been, but light still poured into the house. Outside, a scrawny figure was sitting on the lawn despite the cold. "Dios, he must be freezing... Do you think you could go...

About Solutions and Lab Safety Rules.

  "I broke up with my boyfriend four days ago" 

And the room grew cold. 

"But it doesn't matter, my year starts today. Like the Chinese New Year, no?" 

"That one started five days ago." 

"Still, I'll cheer to my New Year. Clink cups with me." 

New Year's Eve is today, the 30th of January.
When I left the lab dark birds bid me goodbye, the piano had stopped playing.
It filled me with rage.
Filled me with the taste of the chemistry reactions I've been doing these days. Isomalt, starches, gold and silver solutions.
Did you know, that nanoparticles of gold shine red? When they're not contaminated, at least.
I wish I didn't know.
Wish I'd been a little less bold, for once.

But that happened last year anyway.
This year started at the click of a disposable camera, inside and outside a shit campus cafeteria. 
It started with a fight between me and whoever the fuck I decided...

It started today at 10 am, at the IHOP near my home. #kickoff

yesterday told me that I lost you today. 
it whispered in my ear, 
begged me to look 

to look 
to look 
to look 

look at your abstracted eyes, 
reach past our homesick smiles,
touch your face with blind hands, 
just stop

and look

at how bored you were. 

 did I finally bore you? 
it takes three years for a joke to go stale
it takes three hours to make breakfast go cold
it took three 
                    seconds 
                                   to
                                            know. 

I know what happens next. 
                                                  we'll die in our sleep ...

It started today at 10 am, at the IHOP near my home. #kickoff

yesterday told me that I lost you today. 
it whispered in my ear, 
begged me to look 

to look 
to look 
to look 

look at your glazed eyes, 
reach past our homesick smiles,
touch your face with blind hands, 
just stop

and look

at how bored you were. 

and did i finally bore you? 
it takes three years for a joke to go stale
it takes three hours to make breakfast go cold
it took three 
                    seconds 
                                   to
                                            know. 


i know what happens next. 
                                                  we'll die in our...

If you ask. #GOrwell2

If you ask a human how long will the War last, he'll surely tell you "As long as it has to,". They're short-lived creatures, clinging to their ideals as hard as they clung to the passing of time. They've survived the demise of their own planet and now live through alliances and nomad jobs. They believe in the War, in the stars, and in life. "As long as it will."
 
If you ask a more seasoned creature, perhaps a Lower god, they will ask back "Why would it end?". They're experts at the rise and fall of kingdoms, know all about tragedies. This has ensured they become comfortable around death. It curls in their shoulders, basks in a symbiotic kind of love. They feed the War, which in turn feeds death, and the whole endeavor feeds them a promise. A promise of meaning, or a promise of rest. "It's something you have to learn to live with,"
 
If this...

7.- Alma (Nine Abadón)

She was the youngest of ten, a stout little jewel amongst her multitude of brothers. A creature of mischief and poisonous stares. Armed with a guitar and a silver tongue, Alma paraded around the world ever since she had turned of age. Mind you, never with a clear route in mind. Those were for birds and ships, she used to say. Her name meant soul, and she would only follow the path of her own.

I go where I'm not needed

I go where I don't need to 

It took her a few years to hear about the Fire, foreign as she was. She'd been serenading Orion's belt from a friend's balcony when Elena's loud entrance provided a better distraction. They spoke in hushed tones, the words colored by Elena's tears. A woman had killed herself two streets away. Burned her apartment to the ground. The pianist, Langdon, had been playing on the floor below, his grand performance interrupted by...

My December Competition 2019

White in the Smallest Corner of the Universe.

In the smallest corner of the Universe, December looks a lot like nostalgia. It looks a lot like a reminder that I'm not staying for long. Frostbit mornings aren't strong enough to keep old women inside their houses when they could be blessing each house in the town instead. Armed with plastic flowers, colorful shawls and a faith stronger than that of kings and soldiers, they tenderly cradle their saints between their arms. Rosaries twisted around calloused fingers, fantasy pearls twirling around prayed whispers. A virgin Mary figurine patiently stares at me from the living room, her eyes downcast and holding back tears. She's got the same kind of sorrow as my tías do when they light up the candlelights of the altar, when they beg for small mercies and kiss her long cape. 

In the origin of it all, December smells like my Yeya'shouse. It smells like the stories she tells when kneading the dough for pumpkin turnovers....

Lavender and Mint.

Sometimes I wonder if you remember that name. Lavender and Mint. The story we promised each other and never made happen. I wrote it down on your purple notebook, sharp pencil against soft lies. I decorated it with flowers and leaves, and you murmured you'd never be able to write. So you didn't. So you don't, as far as I know. 

And yet, your eyes burn when narrating stories, polished charcoal and the endless night sky crackling inside. How many secrets do your eyes hold? What's behind them, that makes them gleam just so? There was a time in which I thought I knew, but I probably never did. Still, when I gaze into them I can only see a reflection of our first real conversation. Star-gazing, freezing, alone. Our bodies, trapped inside awkward shapes, laid side by side. What did you tell me then, Lavender? What did I say back, Mint? Those scraps of confessions are trapped inside that...

6.- El Flaco (Nine Abadón)

He hasn't been home for a long time. And if he has, he's been drunk. Either way, the lights haven't been on for months and the letters by his doorstep only keep on coming. Everyone pretends not to know who sends them, for the sake of the remitter, but it has just as well turned into one of the street's traditions, to check if they're still there each morning. Elena, nosy as she was born, has stolen some of them and sometimes lets the other girls at the café read them. Only sometimes. Today, they're sprawled all over the table and designed in tremulous handwriting. 

                                                                                      ____
  
Ay, mi Flaco, 

The house isn't as bright without you...

Soldier Toy

Underneath all the silk layers, upon the raw flesh is where I write down prayers for a stranger. 

Tender flesh screams of inexperience, it drips with honeycomb lies. It tenses under the weight of nothing, doubles over its own self-expectations. It is tattoed with the word "worthless" over and over again and shines as bright as the golden child syndrome. 

There, in the place in which there's nothing but a prideful and reckless toddler, is where it hurts the most. Having yourself being handed to you in a silver plate, facing a race in which someone has moved your legs until almost the end. And yet, not being able to walk the last steps. A promise of a world-changing project. A block of clay shaped by thousands of hands, destined to be revolutionary. Destined to be something. Only for it to fall apart last minute. To lose its direction and drip down the sink. 

The soldier toy is facing a...

Novel Writing Competition 2019

Angel Curse.

If there's anything Ne_comer knows, is that names can make or break you.

Even as a king, even as a god. If you go around losing your name, there's nothing to remember you by. A wise person holds onto it with a desperate hand and a stable mind. 

As he's come to realize, Ne_comer isn't a wise person. He stares at the sanitized space, searing white stares back at him. The hallways are void of any soul, the night sky's tainted a pure noir and peeks through the glass panels. Every star has been stolen.

"Indicate your number," a metallic voice crows, he turns to face the elevator. "If you haven't found it yet, re-direct yourself to a lower floor."

"No, I've got it...011," his voice sounds chocked up to his own ears. 011. A curse.

He'd researched it a few days back, it was Binary System. It meant Three. Creation, growth, and completion. They called those "Angel Numbers", capable...

To my dearest, my hurting, my healing Pecan tree.


Oh, you caught me off-guard the other day. With your long limbs rattling around my house, and that hair. Hair of sweet cornbread with caramel, hair of Mississippi nostalgia. I'm not ready to face the day each night, much less face the string of messages I don't answer to anymore. That, and I was also in my pajamas. Definitely not the most proper way to meet up with your past, but I guess it goes like that most of the time. 

I must confess, my loneliest, that I've only included you in my scraps for writings once. And I have never bred you a name either. This is then, the first time I get to reach out to you. This is the very first time I'll call your name, Pecan tree. It didn't take me long to come up with it, and that wasn't a surprise either. You're neat, precise in the ways you stretch, wide in the adjectives that...

Fishing Season. #timeofthetide

February 3rd, 2063.
New York City.


Harlem was out fishing. 

What else could he be doing?  Karime thought bitterly as she watched him reel something in. If they were lucky, he'd catch their dinner. Maybe a can of ravioli or a box of cereal, but at this point, she'd even settle for chips. Yesterday, dinner had been an early night's sleep and a gut-wrenching amount of anger. That spark of fury assaulted her once more as she thought about her last real meal. She'd been out celebrating a promotion with friends, a bowl of steaming, glorious ramen, and a tall beer blessing her taste buds. She'd even dared to leave a few noodle strands untouched. 

And then the tide rose. It happened on the same night. She was walking up the stairs to their apartment, dreading the thought of seeing Harlem once again. Their relationship was already falling apart, after all. She was thinking of the proper way to break...

What are you? #deepthought

It's easier than you'd think. 

Good is soft blankets in November. 

Bad is rose thorns in April. 

Good is loving for the first time, chocolate frosting, a good grade. 

Bad is losing love for the first time, chemicals in chocolate, stressing about grades. 

Good loves, good is strong, good is you. 

Bad hates, bad is strong, bad is...

Good is... smiling? Good is people who smile at good things. 

Bad is... smiling. Bad is people who smile at bad things. 

(And what about the people who frown at both?)

Good is defeating bad guys. 

Bad is beating people up. Unless they're the bad guy, then it is good. 

Bad guys are everyone who I think is bad. Bad guys are everyone who is not like me. 

(And what about being defeated, when you're someone's bad guy?) 

Me? I am good. I like soft blankets. I like smiling at good things. I like being good. 

Every once in a while, I am...

GirlsGirlsGirls

Whenever I lose myself, whenever my words feel ill-fitted in my mouth and my reflection comes out as a default setting, I think of girls. I think of all the girls I've known. Those I haven't. Those I hopefully will. The mystical muses that will live in my heart as long as the poor son of a bitch beats another day. Those I hope I get to immortalize in words so they live in other hearts as well. 

I think of abandoned friendships and the words that I've buried with them. I think of the brightest mind of my generation, spending her time reading teen novels and distancing herself from our world until I couldn't reach her anymore. I'm still hoping for the day someone does, and selfishly wish it's me. Everything I said is now buried in my old backyard, scented with lavender and her laundry soap. Everything I want to say now wilts before reaching her, it tastes...

Teacher Gratitude

The Eddie Finch Paradox

Have you heard of Mr. Finch? 

Nobody actually calls him that of course. He's Eddie for most students and teachers. For us unlucky enough to earn his disdain, he's just Finch. Just as his name suggests, his appearance is much like the small bird. Bulging eyes, squared glasses, always hunched, a mop of blond hair. According to the program, he was supposed to teach us literature, but even now I'm still not quite sure what the class was about. Some days it was discussing movies at length, others criticizing the government. He might not have been a patient tutor, or a tutor at all. He might not have even liked us (I know for a fact he didn't, for we were huge brats at the time and he was neverafraid to voice his opinion). But the man was a whirlwind, a pileus. In words of the immortal John Mulaney, "He was the weirdest goddamn person I ever saw in...

5.- Dr. Eustaquio (Nine Abadón)

You'll only find the doctor between corners, is what the neighboors used to whisper. He lived in the shack at the bottom of the street, the one with those awful gothic frames on the doors, and could barely stand its own weight. It had been built by
 the youngest son of the Morales, who proclaimed that it was experimental architecture. The only experiment that would come out of the little joke for a house would be what his father'd do to him when he found out what Morales did with the money he'd lent him for college. In any case, the young artist had shut everyone's mouth when he shook hands with Eustaquio Dubois, the now owner of the mausoleum dressed as a home.
   
At first the stranger caused fascination among the neighbors, with his vermilion suits and Apollonian profile.

A doctor? What type? From which place? Who sends him?

 
They got used to having none of their questions answered. In part because the doctor was mute, but mainly because it seemed he liked to play the part of the tortured genius. And as the months went by, they also got used to the fact that the only place that they...

4. The Herbalist (Nine Abadón)

“Are you listening to her, Maru? She’s batshit crazy” 

“Don’t start with me, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”  

“Is that so? Why don’t you show me then?”  
 
Maru smiled from her highchair. She was counting the petals of the flowers resting on the top shelves.
 
Nettles, chamomile and white roses.  
 
The sun was high on his throne, showering the herbalist’s shop in a golden gleam. At this time of the day, it felt like being inside a sanctuary, filled to the brim with herbal offerings for nobody. The light bounced off from the hair of the two patrons that had been bickering about anything and everything since their arrival. While Maru enjoyed the chaos that seemed to follow the pair, it was obvious the rest of her costumers didn’t.

They were twin sisters, the daughters of the Vitale family, some of the few people that had been dragged into Nine Abadón after The Fire. She liked them, definitely. Their faces meant change, and that’s what the street longed for. The cobblestones were tranquil now, relishing on the feeling of...

3. Landon et Debussy. (Nine Abadón)

They’d warned Landon he’d be here. Even if nobody dared to actually voice it to him, he could almost touch the red flags sticking out; beneath purses, in between murmurs, even crawling out of seemingly calm expressions. The silence was the biggest warning of them all. Whenever Landon came to visit, the street came alive and dissolved into a cacophony of exclamations, cheers and every now and then, sobs. He was one of the few prodigies that the city had conceived, after all. A dignified pianist, a musical virtuoso. It was always deafening, always blown out of proportion.


But this time, even the cicadas were immersed in a vow of silence, holding their breaths as he stumbled around.  


And dense as he may have been, he still had a pair of mildly functioning ears, and a disposition for gossip. The whispers told him more than what he needed to know. That the bastardhad arrived two days ago, that he...

2. Fatima (Nine Abadón)

In a tiny apartment of the city center, a woman observes her watch. It strikes midnight. She doesn't know what day it is, but really, that's none of her business anymore. She's dead anyway. Her name used to be Fatima. She looks at the cigarette ash in the windowsill, and recalls the last person who killed her. It occured a few days ago, when he rushed before her and burst into tears. He never had a name. He barely had two shirts in her wardrobe. That and the cigar ash in the windowsill.

Tenderly, she bundles it up in a little pile and blows over it. She watches as the wind tangles with the remains of a man who loved her without knowing her. Remembers the shirts, he didn't even take them. Contemplates burning them, and decides that it would be better not to open the wardrobe again. It's now filled with his cologne, the one that smelled cheap and  of...

1. Be Careful. (Nine Abadón)

If you arrive to the city, tread carefully around the center.

Be careful when you hear the cicadas.

Be careful when you smell the smoke.
 

Because that's how Nine Abadón Street welcomes its strangers.

Over there you won't find any angels, over there you'll be stepping on demons.

Three hundred and forty tragedies have occurred since the street was born.

There are three tarot stalls, a butcher shop and a seedy bar that old dogs like to sleep by.
 

On holidays, they perfume it with lavender and vanilla.

During weddings, they dress it with garden roses and hidden thistles.

At funerals, the wind shakes the windows and people gather up in houses to smoke.

After all, each death means the birth of a new demon to cement the way.
 

So, if you find yourself facing the street. 

Don't bother it, don't even dare to say hello. Even better, do not turn to see it.

If it becomes...

CONTEST RESULTS #Paganini'sviolin

This is embarrassingly late, I'm so sorry :( School has been taking up much more of my time that I'd originally expected. Thank you so much to everyone who submitted a piece, they were all lovely and creative. I'll leave a little review on all of them, because honestly I loved them all and found beautiful lines in each of them <3 

So, without further ado: 

FIRST PLACE:  Saved by the Heavens by Kayla Vanderpool

"​  They saw only a flash of blinding light; the sky exploded into a thousand glittering diamonds, exuding an orchid white that, with a fierce rage, filled the eyes, bodies, souls of the two children. The lakes in their eyes bubbled and gurgled, no longer a clear blue, but a heavenly white, as the sky’s pale fire consumed them. "

I LOVED THIS. The way you unfurled all this narration is just so heartbreaking and beautiful. How it all ties to Heaven, even the name...

My Name.

My name is twenty-four letters that are never quite pronounced the same way.

It is a promise that I haven't been able to fulfill.

It's a secret that my great-grandmother hid for almost a century.

It's carved on the wanderer sword she left at the end of her trip. 

It is the cacophony of the noises that have seen it grow.

The thunderous symphony of narrow streets, tianguis, sparrows and patrols.

The murmurs of my grandmother when praying and the crunch of bay leaves.


My name is pronounced as

                               Where do you come from?


But if you speak it with an accent, it's a


                             Could you repeat it, miss?


And when it is lost, it turns into any lullaby you could summon.

When you already know it well, you don't...

UPDATE #paganini'sviolin

Hey, so sorry for not posting this before. School's been driving crazy lately, and only today I was able to catch a breath lol. 

Anyway!!! I'm still going over the entries, but so far Ive been adoring them all. 

Results will be posted most likely on OCTOBER 11th 

Thank you, and good luck!! <3

Human Connections Essay Competition 2019

Stories I tell myself at 3 am

If there is an emotion you can feel, there's a rope you can tie to it. If there's a person you can see, there's a way you can tie the two of you together. We've all been connected once, simply because we exist together. And if we venture into the unknown terrains of side-glances, we dig into the sudden chills we get out of seemingly nowhere, or look for clues in the familiar face of a stranger, we might find the type of connections we're not even aware of. 

Those that were. Those that will be. Those that we won't discover in this life time. 

Because we don't know if this is our only chance, so we can only wonder. Maybe we've had millions of lives, maybe we don't even have this one. Maybe we've been humans before and maybe we haven't. Maybe we shouldn't question it, and maybe we should.

So I will. 

I will question the time that...

His Ring #homosapiens

Everyone's heard of The Bounty Hunter

With his crooked grin and drab ocean eyes. 

His face changes from town to town,

Because his real name was drowned. 

No easy target, for he's not a real man. 

But if one were to search him in a crowd, 

If one were to look for what really matters, 

They'd have to find His Ring, 

Plain as copper, common as cod. 

Carved out from the branch of the last surviving tree, 

That's now swimming in the depths of the Grenn sea. 

Scratched all around, made by a lost friend, 

It tells the tale of a childhood and a shipwrecked child,

It's speaks of the promise of saving an island, 

that sunk many years ago. 









 

Put your heart back in your pocket #homosapiens

Here's what they don't tell you about it. 

It's not a whirlwind bursting through the door, and leaving everything barren.

It's never quite that loud.

Not a ticking time bomb, or the crack of a whip. Not the hollow that a bullet leaves behind.

It's never quite that quick.

No, heartbreak isn't gunpowder, no bloody fists, typhoon, hurricane nor fire.

It's never quite that surprising. 

Heartbreak is quiet, until it settles in deep. It's taking down paintings from a wall of a house you never got to live in. It's clenching fists underneath a table, and weeping on a public bathroom.

Looking out a window, and thinking:

Ah, shit. That's what it was.

Searching for the same mop of hair in every new face, and coming out guilty and empty-handed. 

It's realizing there's no hope, no point anymore. The tiny house in your head will still be there, cozy and painted yellow. And the flowers, the hill you've dreamed up...

America: Violence and Gun Control #tobeararms

"If our nation is ever taken over, it will be taken over form within" - James Madison 

Elkmont, Alabama. A 14-year old shoots dead five family members - two adults and three children - in their own residence. He confesses the crime to the police. September 2, 2019. 

Clairton, Pennsylvania. Four teenagers - ages 14 to 18 - are at a graduation party. Seven shots are fired. They receive gunshot wounds to the abdomen and lower extremities. July 20, 2019. 

El Paso, Texas. Patrick Crusius legally buys a WASR-10 rifle, a civilian version of an AK-47, enters a Walmart Supercenter and opens fire. 22 are killed and 24 injured. He confesses to "wanting to shoot as many Mexicans as possible". He'd published a racist, anti-immigrant manifesto 27 minutes prior to the attack. It's one of the deadliest mass shootings since 1949. August 3, 2019

As of today, there have been 289 reported mass shootings in the United States. There hasn't...

​Magical Creature Encyclopaedia: On Humans #justalittlemagic

 Here's the thing about magic: It's the only natural phenomenon that humans haven't been able to control. Mother Nature smirks with malice at their futile attempts to conjure up fire with spells they've heard from Brujeds, or get the power out of faliks trapped in jars. And it's almost innocent of them, trying to reach it with their clumsy paws. Because as big as they've grown, magic is not part of them, and will never be. No matter how much they try to swallow stars, only the Chimnelen are able to handle the heat. No matter how fast they go, only Regiae can jump through time.

Even if the enchanting Eleaiswere to breed with one of these spiteful creatures, the offspring would be too obtuse to comprehend its power, and would burn up before their first year went by. And thus, humans can't do magic. Can't be born from it. And that's a fact of life. Those who...

Four Leaf Clover #Home

Home has been her smile for a long while. It curls like a crescent moon, like a cradle, like a hug. Like the timeless space between sheets and matress, and the sound of my town's Cathedral. 

Our traditions are searching for the smallest corner of the local library to listen to the quiet. They're seeing each other every day, and still going out for breakfast to catch up on Saturdays. 

Our favorite stories are how we met, mundane and uncomfortable. How I ripped my pants in front of her, and she met my mother on the same day. How we had a breakdown together during final's week, sneaked a two liter Coca-cola bottle into a cinema, and how we spent a whole year whispering truths into the other's ears. 

On our walls, we've hung up all the thread rings she's made me (i leave small spaces for future ones), all the mornings spent in grass lanes, her diploma from the...

The Night Chicago Died #hearmyvoice

Phoenix, Arizona.
September of 1974. 
Monsoon Season.

A pair of ragged shoes stamped against the petrichor-scented streets, puddles splashing against worn-out Converses. Bernie cursed, feeling water tearing through the thin cloth and making his socks bunchy. He didn't have the time to stop and take them out, instead racing towards the Butcher's house.

"Bernie, where you going now?" Rosa yelled from her door frame. 

"I gotta- Gotta find BB!," his answer came out as a breathless puff, the news he'd received a few minutes ago making his eyes wide as plates as he added, "Old Man's dead, Rosita!"

"I know, BB's already there," she laughed as his face fell "Said he wouldn't wait for your scrawny ass."

Bern cursed for the second time that day, but ran towards the Old Man's house anyways. 

"Thank you Rosita!"

"Be careful out there!"

He would be. Even if the Old Man had been ancient, he was still skilled with his cane, used to...

Blinding smile #raincontest

She's covered all the mirrors in her house. 

Each one of her meals goes first through a blender or it doesn't go in at all. 

Washing her mouth takes careful hours, even if her mouth still ends up bloodied afterwards. 

She washes twice. 

Nights are the worst. 

Her teeth violently grind against one another, bite and leave marks on her tongue. 

Her jaw clenches when she thinks about it. 

She has to force it open with her hands when that happens, to make sure it doesn't snap. 

No one knows where the obsession came from, maybe from her childhood, when the dentist forced her jaw open, much like she now does herself, and installed a collection of metal appliances inside. 

They tasted the same as blood

Or maybe from her nervous nature, oppresive personality, that made her hair fall, her stomach contort and spit bile... and her teeth grind.

Grind, grind, grind. 

She hopes one day they'll finish the...

Walmart Fae #RealitymeetsFantasy

It's under the white fluorescent lights of Walmart, that Willow became sure that her new roommate wasn't entirely human. It was the little things, really. For instance, he was a bit too clever. Always an answer at the tip of his tongue, never running out of words. And yet, she didn't even know his last name. Somehow, he always got what he wanted, whether he used his mouth or his looks. 

Those were another dead giveaway. His face was a moving Bernini sculpture, and it contorted in disturbing ways depending on his expression. Smiles that seemed to stretch up to his eyes, sneers that showed fangs and a nose scrunched up like a dog. The way he moved wasn't fluid per se, but rather as a puppet being lifted by strings, limbless and nonchalant. His laughter was high and shrill, violin cords shaking under the force of a bow. An impressing collection of dried flowers by his window sill, his obsession with honey,...

Roje House #CAPUTDRACONIS

Healing Houses were incredibly commmon in Lignumt, they huddled in small alleys and could be easily spotted by the colorful smoke puffs sneaking out their chimneys, the wildflowers sprouting around the doorsteps, scents of thyme and clover in the morning and cardamum and ginger at night. 

Healers, or as they called themselves, Hakiden, were King-allowed magic users, devoted to the transformation and repair of the human body. While they were allowed to experiment with any topic of their interest, it had to be for the benefit of the Kingdom and its Knights. Lignumt, packed with Knight training facilities, figured as the best city to own a Healing House. 

So it wasn't bizarre to see one of those quaint, stout clinics busy during late hours. What would've been alarming to see was the gigantic man struggling against two Hakideninside the Roje House. That, and perhaps the bandits playing cards on the corner would make sure to make a...

Growth. #imagineit

It's never the absence of safety,
Not the chill you feel when it leaves the door open,
It's who walks in and grows.
The thorns curling around your neck,
Your breathing jagged, panting, desperate.

It's learning to walk on your tiptoes, searching for corners,
It's not what you lack, but what you feed into. 
Not the years you've lost, but the dread of those to come. 

Letting hopelessness twist and drown you, 
hoping it will suffocate the panic as well, 
Stomach-twisted, racing heart, sweaty hands, 
It's never the absence of your mind,
But the insanity that grows in its place.

Free. #imagineit

They’re sharing a Croque Monsieur at a crappy café close to their old flat, and it almost feels like routine.

Bianca supposes that at some point it was, even if now even thinking about it equates to feeling nauseous and enraged. 

“It does rain a lot around here, innit?” Robin asks, her new British accent making Bianca’s skin crawl. 

“As if you wouldn’t know,” the room grows cold, “You lived here five years and already forgot?"

"You mad because I forgot how's the damn weather, or because I forgot you so quickly?" 

That one stings, there is nothing she regrets more than suggesting to meet-up as friends.

And she hates how even after everything, Robin's freckle constellations still leave her breathless. 

"You should move on, Bianca. It's not healthy, we're not in college anymore"

She's right, Bianca thinks, feeling tears welling up in her eyes.

She hadn't cried during their fights, not even their break-up.

She's always thought it...

#sixlittlestories

Even with flies, honey doesn't rot. 

Hide from blood moons and moonless. 

Falling teeth, muddy shirts, feral years. 

Your letter stamps, symbols of hope. 

He forgot his scarf, finally free. 

How much will healing cost us?




 

Symbol of Power and Death #Animind

Times have changed. 

My species knows this better than any other. 

They used to call us Balam and we were symbols of power and death. Our fur, a bright cantaloupe colour stained with ebony, was the night sky; constellations covered our backs. They thought of us mystical, because we knew how to blend in with thick foliage, the only proof of our existence were our beacons for eyes.

Doorkeepers of the Underground, travellers of the three worlds, born from the navel of the Moon. Our figures were captured on vases: our fangs bared, backs arched and courage hardening our bodies. Chac Bolay watched over all of us, and he kept humans at bay. 

Then, the storm came. Creatures covered with steel who called upon the thunder arose from the sea. Those that worshipped us were made to withdraw, driving their deities and traditions into the depths of the jungle. 
Those that were left behind went up in flames. The humans may have started...

Anatomy of the Table

The table is made of dark mahogany, with carved chrysanthemum running up its legs and silver outlining the sides. It is the strenght, the soul, the history of the house. It breathes dust and talks on quiet nights. It changes its anatomy each generation, but the flowers remain the same. The mahogany is still the same. And more important, it's strenght is still the same. 

This generation has made it larger than it had been for centuries: pulling old chairs out of dark closets but buying new silverware. It has hatched four heads and several tails. New cracks and marks sit along its surface. Some flowers were even chipped away. And it's decorated with gold statues and tall wax candles. 

The four heads are called Gloid, Algerno, Fantin and Piktor, all offsprings of the past main head, who is now too senile to difference between his children. The tails are reserved for husbands, wives, sons, daughters... and Serilda. She's too...

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

Fire

It's a crisp autumn morning, figures in ebony contrast against the white casket they stand around. The two closest to it observe the remains of their father's body.

"Someone killed him," The daughter whispers, dabbing on her cheeks. "Started the fire. It's symbolic."

"Maybe so. He did have enough enemies and smoked like a chimney."

A beat.

"Although... you don't seem mad about it."

"Bastard deserved it."

He feigns surprise.

"Not so loud or you'll lose your part of the will."

Scandalous laughter. She takes out a cigarette. 

"Tell me that when you've washed the cinder off your nails."

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

Fire

It's a crisp autumn morning and there's a congregation of dark figures around a white casket. Two stand at the front, the others whisper about the pain they must feel. Their father's scorched face stares back at them.

"Someone killed him" she whispers to his brother, dabbing on her cheeks. "It's symbolic"

"Burn him ? He always had enemies, and a tendency to smoke... Although, you don't seem mad about it"

"Bastard deserved it"

He looked stricken.

"Not so loud or you'll lose your part of the will"

"Tell me that when you've washed the cinder off your nails"

On Courage

The Right Time

There's never a right time to realize you're different 
Different to what you've been told you'd be like 
Different to who you wished you'd be like. 
There's never a right time to look at yourself, 
and see a bunch of limbs awkwardly put together. 
Is that you? The pair of billowy eyes that stare in fear? 

Is that you? The way you react and think and speak and fear?
Are you the person you wish,
the one staring back,
or the one you've been told you are?
Maybe you're all of them, maybe you're none. 

There's so much that defines you, 
and words too small to wear. 
Hands trying to pry and shape you up, 
Only to be met with rough edges, pointy questions. 
Because what you see inside your own eyes 
Goes beyond explanations, expectations and looks. 
It's yours, it's yours, it's yours and yours alone

And so are all of the colors in your face, 
In your...

Song Writing Competition 2019

Lionhead

1st verse
Palius in your head
Silver in your tongue,
A trembling grimace
tearing down the throne
(Hey!)
Kintsugi vases
They shine under the sun,
Gold pouring from the cracks,
Carnations weighing down the guns,
(Hey!)

Chorus
Stand up tonight, ruby red
Stand up and cry out, lion head
We've seen how much you've bled 
We've felt the healing scars on your neck 

One breath at a time, ruby red 
Time washes your back, lion head
We've felt how deep is your ache
We've seen how many mornings it takes 

Second Verse
And you'll wear freedom as a flag
Find the soul behind your mask
Stitch together the love you lack
Twist the thorns into a crown

Oh, Pride-stained, oh broken bones
(Alright, Lionhead)
It'll all be over before you know it
Oh, bird cage, oh lost-and-found
(Alright, Ruby Red) 
Your crystal tears will find a seat

(chorus)






 

Micro Memoir

Gold and Indigo

The pier shines in gold and indigo as the Levi lake swallows stars. There are a handful of boats playing the part of brooches, red parasols turning into rubies, the moon as a hair piece. Both the city and I have dressed up for the occasion, it seems. We've been parted for a year, and we'll be parted again soon, it doesn't matter now. I observe the faces of street performers scrunched while they sing, the purest demonstrations of passion passing by my side. The storefronts smell of lies, but the insides are bursting with memories. It's quiet at this hour, the tourists retreating into french cafés, their smiles as warm as the heaters outside. They're playing into the illusion of the city, falling in love with the smallest part of a soul. I'd call it foolish if I hadn't gotten my heart broken before. 

My eyes try to clean out the flood of nostalgia, leaving trails of tears down...

A Signature Capability

Red-handed

He flourished on a signature capability, long fingers muttering dry cracks as he pulled and twisted. It was that of meddling in other creatures' fates. The strings that determined the future of pawns and kings alike wrapped around his left hand. His right was busy predicting the downfall of a nation, making sure to intertwine the string of the heiress to the throne with that of a burglar. What a scandal that union would be, he mused.

It wasn't an easy task, that of spiraling chaos out of destiny.  The palms of his hands ended up blotched and swollen each day, and the lack of light in the room was robbing him of his eye-sight. Not to mention the paranoia that came with the fear of being caught, well, red-handed. And wouldn't that be a laugh. 

Indeed, being the most successful kibitzer in history took quite a lot of effort, and even more well-honed creativity. After all, it takes a...