seaomelette

United Arab Emirates

Heyo! I’m Lauren, a high school sophomore who loves reading too many fantasy novel series, listening to music, and eating a probably unhealthy amount of ice cream.

Message from Writer

I love helping other writers! Just comment a piece you'd like to be reviewed on and I'll reply shortly. (*^▽^*)

Published Work

Birdsong

Library

Soft sliding susurrations, light lift of page,

A sigh, a huff, a breath, murmurs in the murky quiet,

Rustling, shuffling, low thunder of a rolling ladder,

A blurted sentence, shhh, muffling curtain of silence. 

Broken intermittently with creaks of rusted lamp joints, squealing—

Footsteps, echoing down the aisles, ricocheting off the high ceiling arches

Tuff, tuff, tuff, hush! Absorbed by fabric-bound spines, standing proud,

Lined up on infinite shelves, yawning down the literary corridor of the ages—

Clatter of a dropped pen, careless student cramming, crying indistinguishably

The books bend close, whispering inaudibly little nothings of comfort:

Hush, hush, hush, you’re not alone. 

Novel Writing Competition 2020

Devilish Wishes

The Devil was bored. Deep down in the toasty depths of Hell, he perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, and filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire, humming Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the Devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne.

He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and...

November Grab Bag

Miss Valentine and Her Attic Domain

Write about a possum, living in an attic.

Miss Valentine knew it was day, when the golden shafts of light no longer spilled across the planks and dwindled away over the horizon. Night for humans, day for possums. She stretched languidly, and tumbled from her makeshift, potato-sack hammock. The house owners had forgotten about these particular potatoes, which had sprouted and blossomed into a little forest of shoots. Miss Valentine smiled her sharp, toothy grin - the one she conserved for Fridays (when the house denizens would leave for romantic dinners) and the days she found particularly crunchy spiders. 

Today wasn't a Friday, unfortunately, and she heard snores rising up from the bedroom below. But there was a particularly crunchy spider scuttling across the dusty floor, and Miss Valentine watched it go, her sharp smile sharpening, gleaming in the semi-darkness. BlinkBlink-blinkPounce! Wiggling her pink nose and pink tail happily, Miss Valentine chowed down, and heard the satisfying...

quarantine

                ~

chapter I: lockdown

my heart beats behind the windowsill 
quiet, muffled, unheard
my eyes alight upon the clouds, and soar above the trees
free, yet trapped
seeing, without feeling the
breeze upon my face
the air against my glasses
the grass beneath my feet

                    ~
chapter II: emergence

my heart beats beneath a swell of sound
stampeding feet echoing, a cacophony of beeps and
screams and chatter and the 
rustle of plastic bags
my eyes swerve from shelf to shelf, 
free, yet trapped amidst a swirl of bodies
masked but unmasked in their fear and anxiety 
suffocating moisture welling up like tears

                    ~
chapter III: return

swaying home with the weight of countless panic buys
and rote unpacking, fear of lingering
cool sting of disinfectant, and
sharp swell of bleach, billowing like a curtain
no dawdling in the hall, bustle, the panic wavering down
but the worry remains, uncertain, hesitant, weary.

                    ~
chapter IV:...

quarantine

                ~

chapter I: lockdown

my heart beats behind the windowsill 
quiet, muffled, unheard
my eyes alight upon the clouds, and soar above the trees
free, yet trapped
seeing, without feeling the
breeze upon my face
the air against my glasses
the grass beneath my feet

                    ~
chapter II: emergence

my heart beats beneath a swell of sound
stampeding feet echoing, a cacophony of beeps and
screams and chatter and the 
rustle of plastic bags
my eyes swerve from shelf to shelf, 
free, yet trapped amidst a swirl of bodies
masked but unmasked in their fear and anxiety 
suffocating moisture welling up like tears

                    ~
chapter III: return

swaying home with the weight of countless panic buys
and rote unpacking, fear of lingering
cool sting of disinfectant, and
sharp swell of bleach, billowing like a curtain
no dawdling in the hall, bustle, the panic wavering down
but the worry remains, uncertain, hesitant, weary.

                    ~
chapter IV:...

Setting as Mood

An Autumnal Evening

Briiiiiiiiing…briiiiiiiiing. Sadie pedaled furiously, her fingers cramped and scurrying on her bicycle bell as if her life depended on it. Like a festive streamer, her hair whipped in the wind behind her, closely accompanied by her woolen scarf, its crimson tassels flipping determinedly. Pedestrians and dogs alike ducked out of her frenetic path, only mildly comforted by Sadie’s blurted apologies, which were near-immediately swallowed by wind. It was October, and the trees lining the path seemed awash in flame. The cool breeze, flavored with the crackling scent of marshmallows and bonfires and dry leaves, swept through windows, wound into gaps in sweater buttons and jacket zippers, set foliage underfoot to dancing and whirling along the streets. The leaves were everywhere, beaming in shades of amber and umber and gold and vermilion and red, as if vivid flames had swallowed the ground and were inching upwards into the sky. A sunset was melting across the horizon, in pastel peony, honey, and...

the taste of regret

the thought of rain untasted,
falling softly into the dried oasis
arms outstretched to catch the pale drops that
drip past the gaps in your hands,
drop to the ground so
wasted.

the thought of paradises lost,
choked, destroyed, and ruined,
by massive metal monsters and whining
keening machines
lights whirring ceaselessly,
creatures screaming for their homes that are nothing more than
dust and ashes and smoky fires
dead pyres outstretched beneath the
sky.

                            ~

the thought of battered children trapped
in crumbling buildings,
huddled beside ruins,
scrabbling for the scraps of the future
they were denied.

the thought of a poisoned atmosphere
acid tears dripping, scarring
a CO2-choked sea, with corals
blanched, their vibrant souls stolen
of disappearing creatures and forgotten bones

                              ~

the thought of hope crushed
underfoot, bruised, and broken
trampled, flailing, desperate
painted black and weeping,
sobbing behind dark curtains,
hidden behind a gray miasma of 
our own creation. 




 

the taste of regret

regret is a strange, sad feeling that
fills you up with the thought of things you
could have done but 
did not do.

                            ~

the thought of rain untasted,
falling softly into the dried oasis
arms outstretched to catch the pale drops that
drip past the gaps in your hands,
drop to the ground so
wasted.

the thought of paradises lost,
choked, destroyed, and ruined,
by massive metal monsters and whining
keening machines
lights whirring ceaselessly,
creatures screaming for their homes that are nothing more than
dust and ashes and smoky fires
dead pyres outstretched beneath the
sky.

                            ~

the thought of battered children trapped
in crumbling buildings,
huddled beside ruins,
scrabbling for the scraps of the future
they were denied.

the thought of a poisoned atmosphere
acid tears dripping, scarring
a CO2-choked sea, with corals
blanched, their vibrant souls stolen
of disappearing creatures and forgotten bones

                              ~

the thought of hope crushed
underfoot, bruised,...

That Sort of Person

People I've Never Met

She's the kind of person who shops at pharmacies just to spend a little more money on herself because she's already spent her paycheck on a new toaster that's still sitting in the box and on eyeshadow palettes she'll never use, and then she comes back home loaded with plastic bags from which she pulls out tubs and tubs of wrinkle creams and then she slathers her face in gunk just to feel a little younger. 

He's that sort of person who walks lovestruck under a specific bedroom window while holding red plastic roses, because those are reusable and will never wilt, unlike a specific girl's love for him.

She's the kind of person who bosses everyone around at the school orchestra rehearsal, and even though she's only ever good at violin, she thinks she knows when the piccolo is out of tune or when the percussion boy's tympani has lost its auditory luster, but everyone else knows she really...

Untitled

The party at Marie’s house is near ending, and the inebriated guests are dwindling down the porch and swaying down the road. I stand on the porch and watch them go, as the humid Florida night presses down on my bare shoulders and sweat trickles down my face.

The door behind me is open just a crack, but the pounding disco inside spills out and sparks tiny tremors on the worn wood planks beneath my heels. Thump…thump…thump. I slouch against the railing and ponder my half-empty cup of spiked punch. I’m in the 20-dollar cocktail dress I bought last Friday at the mall, but somehow the zipper’s jammed now halfway down my spine and its floral glory of a skirt is glued tightly to my thighs, and the fancy half-updo I tried is coming undone and sticking to my neck. I shift uncomfortably and wish for a cool gust of wind. None comes, and I’m left swirling the punch...

Lost in Translation

كظم - Kzem

English, that ubiquitous language with sesquipedalian words and contradictory grammar constructions a-plenty, has many words for calmness and restraint. To name a few, there’s stoic, self-controlled, placid, level-headed, temperate, and serene. These words bring to mind unflappable pre-school teachers smiling forgivingly as toddlers fling wooden blocks about and scream unfortunate phrases they’ve picked up from their parents at each other, or perhaps ancient sages with long beards and a certain serenity achievable only by a near-century of meditation in quiet woods. Yet, these words restrict themselves to a single area of one’s general peaceful temperament.

Ask for a single word describing a temperamental ability, and English falls short. With an appalling doink!, English skips along the linguistic pavement, trips over this pebble, and flops on its face. Classical Arabic, however, the written language of the Middle East, with its gorgeous inflections, endless synonyms, and convoluted grammar, lends itself generously. Soaring over the pebble into the brightly lettered sky, Arabic spreads...

Cli-Fi

When The World Was on Fire, We Kept Laughing

When the sirens blared, we knew it was time.

We dragged out the chairs and sat at the dinner table, with our shoulders hunched and our faces cold and sunken. My sister was sobbing silently, and the tears ran down her face in translucent drops. We pretended not to notice, slumping over the tabletop and staring at our reflections in the glazed wood. 

When the power flicked out, we sat in the darkness. 

My father slammed the table, and we jolted like marionettes yanked by invisible strings. Quietly, my mother wrapped her thin fingers around his arm. 

        "Martha, I'm sorry," he said, with the rough edge of hysteria in his voice. 

The sirens wailed on. We were used to hearing them on the rare broadcasts we got through the melted radio, but never this close. This time was different. 

In the distance, the screams began. Then we heard the fires. A crackling, visceral roar, accompanied by snapping wood and...

Devilish Wishes - 6

Tabitha Rawlings stared blearily at the ceiling. It looked the same as always, with its loopy rabbit-shaped crack down the middle, and the odd water leak stains by the corners. Slowly, she blinked. Then she hefted herself about and peered at the clock on the bedstand. 12:00 AM, it flashed at her, glowing green in the hazy darkness.

Tabitha fumbled around for her glasses. She was now positive the strange sounds she’d heard were not from her dream, which featured a lot of china-clinking and tea-tasting, but from her front garden. Tea-tasting, a peaceful activity where the taster’s only sounds were critical slurps and hums of pleasure, did not feature loud clanging noises (oh Lord, what of the delicate chinaware?) or Heavens despair, ear-splitting screams.

Tabitha worried her thin bottom lip worriedly, as she slid out of bed and into her slippers, and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around herself. Her first guess was that the dratted neighborhood raccoons had...

Devilish Wishes - 5

The last thing Martin Alexander Hopkins Rawlings remembered was a dazzling, be-robed figure carrying what looked like a wine glass on LSD and telling him in an incredibly soothing voice that he’d be on Earth shortly. For what reason, Martin had no idea.

And now, he was somehow perched atop the branches of an old oak tree. More specifically, the old oak tree he played on as a kid. Martin saw the initials “MAHR” he’d scratched on an uppermost limb, and he saw the glimmer of too familiar streetlights and the rooves of too familiar houses in the gaps between leaves. It was night, and a chill breeze stirred the tree branches lightly.

Instinctively, Martin inched downwards, his feet finding the little old notches he’d carved in strategic places along the tree trunk. He landed on the soft grass and observed his surroundings. There was Mrs. Delilah’s house, with its pink walls and antique gate, and there was the Homers’...

Devilish Wishes - 4

The Devil filed his talons nervously. He was sitting on a surprisingly comfortable cloud chair that emanated nothing but holy rays and the sweet scent of virtue. The smell of God’s coffee was everywhere, a constant reminder of who, exactly, he would meet in a matter of moments.

The door swung open. God waltzed in, dressed in his customary white robe and carrying his customary cup of black coffee.

“Lucifer Morningstar!” He boomed. “What brings you here today? Perhaps an apology for the planet issue?”

The Devil pasted on his business grin hurriedly. He simply had no intention of discussing the planet issue.

“Well, erm,” mumbled the Devil, squirming in his cloud chair, “I have something to ask of You.”

God flopped into His own cloud chair behind His immense gilded office desk and placed His coffee cup on a meticulously-arranged coaster. Then He folded His hands, the very instruments that had created the Earth, on the tabletop and...

Devilish Wishes - 3

The Devil sat on an antique, surprisingly uncomfortable sofa in the old lady’s living room and sipped tea from a teacup he’d been offered. The dog he’d heard earlier had finally summoned the courage to make its appearance. It growled at him from time to time, flattening its white triangles of ears and curling round the old lady’s legs protectively.
The devil snorted. He was tempted to send a small flare of hellfire to tickle the dog’s nose, but refrained from doing so. Apart from his lapse in good temper, the devil was on his best behavior.

The old lady, seated across from him in an equally ancient armchair, sipped from her own teacup and eyed him seriously.

              “I’d like to see my late son again,” she said, clutching the bone china cup tightly.

              “Hm, hm,” mused the Devil, “What was his name?”

The old lady paused and looked over the Devil’s shoulder. Her eyes grew misty. The...

Devilish Wishes - 2

The Devil stood on the house porch and contemplated the doorbell in front of him. It was rather dusty and more than a little rusty, but it worked when he pressed it with a well-manicured talon. Immediately, a frantic cacophony of barking exploded behind the door.

The Devil groaned inwardly. He never did well with dogs. The creatures disliked him, loathed him even. The Devil straightened his impeccably-ironed suit jacket and took a calming breath.

Coming up to the door were muffled, slipper-clad footsteps—slow, methodic, and shuffling. The Devil groaned again. He’d been hoping that he’d get a sprightly young person. Sprightly young people always wished for the cool things in life—like lots of money, or a spanking neon green Lamborghini, or an enormous mansion—all of which he’d be willing to grant, at a price of course. He’d be a bad businessman if he didn’t. Old people, like the person he’d undoubtedly meet in a few moments, wished for stupid, sentimental things...

Devilish Wishes - 1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until his holy colleague from the heavens above had...

Devilish Wishes

1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until...

Devilish Wishes

1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until...

Devilish Wishes

1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until...

Devilish Wishes

1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until...

Devilish Wishes

1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until...

Devilish Wishes

1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until...

Devilish Wishes

1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until...

Devilish Wishes

1

The Devil was bored. Perched on his inherited throne of obsidian, which still echoed with the shrieks of sinners from time to time, he filed his talons with a wayward spurt of hellfire and hummed Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dun dun dun DUUUUN.

Today had been another dull day of work—judging sinners, supervising torture, writing soul contracts, being summoned a couple times by deluded Satan worshippers—ah, after a gazillion years of doing his job, the devil was truly and utterly bored. He snapped his talons, extinguishing his fiery nail filer, and slouched on his throne. He could do anything he wanted—raise a couple more obsidian mountains in his domain? Pff, no problem. Fling a sack of criminal souls in a whirling vortex of their own pain and suffering? Pff, no problem. Encircle a whole planet with fire? PFFF, no problem. He had done that before, in all actuality, and it had been uproariously fun…at least until...

Lost Oceans

Like ghostly white phantoms, two figures emerged from the battered metal hatch and stumbled out into the whirling, eternal sandstorm. White melted into indiscernible orange, and they slammed the circular door behind them.

The ventilator suit was still too big for Ari, the littler of the figures, and it sagged somewhat on her bony frame. The suits were made of a rubbery synthetic material and equipped with two oxygen tanks—enough for a journey like this one. When clean, they looked like the clouds her grandmother Jen remembered, the ones that used to float in the sky, pure puffs of air. Outside, they were blanketed in an instant orange torrent. In this world, there were no clouds, nor any bit of blue. In this world, dust—hot, gritty, bitter, and dull—covered everything.

A steady trickle of sand was dripping through the gaps, sending a scorching tangle of flames to tickle her arms and legs. The suit’s filtering system was getting old—meaning that...

Lost Oceans

Like ghostly white phantoms, two figures emerged from the battered metal hatch and stumbled out into the whirling, eternal sandstorm. White melted into indiscernible orange, and they slammed the circular door behind them.

The ventilator suit was still too big for Ari, the littler of the figures, and it sagged somewhat on her bony frame. The suits were made of a rubbery synthetic material and equipped with two oxygen tanks—enough for a journey like this one. When clean, they looked like the clouds her grandmother Jen remembered, the ones that used to float in the sky, pure puffs of air. Outside, they were blanketed in an instant orange torrent. In this world, there were no clouds, nor any bit of blue. In this world, dust—hot, gritty, bitter, and dull—covered everything.

A steady trickle was dripping through the gaps, sending a scorching tangle of flames to tickle her arms and legs. The suit’s filtering system was getting old—meaning that with every...

Lost Oceans

Like ghostly white phantoms, two figures emerged from the battered metal hatch and stumbled out into the whirling, eternal sandstorm. White melted into indiscernible orange, and they slammed the circular door behind them.

The ventilator suit was still too big for Ari, the littler of the figures, and it sagged somewhat on her bony frame. The suits were made of a rubbery synthetic material and equipped with two oxygen tanks—enough for a journey like this one. When clean, they looked like the clouds her grandmother Jen remembered, the ones that used to float in the sky, pure puffs of air. Outside, they were blanketed in an instant orange torrent. In this world, there were no clouds, nor any bit of blue. In this world, dust—hot, gritty, bitter, and dull—covered everything.

A steady trickle was dripping through the gaps, sending a scorching tangle of flames to tickle her arms and legs. The suit’s filtering system was getting old—meaning that with every...

The Evil Hood and Her Unfortunate (Or Perhaps Fortunate) Demise

The Evil Hood stalks through the deep, dark woods. There’s an evil, twisted smile on her face, and something that looks like blood trickling by the right side of her mouth. Or perhaps that’s just poorly applied lipstick.

She’s armed with a picnic basket. It’s one’s ordinary, run-of-the-mill picnic basket—cheaply made of glossed wood and providing certain risk of splinters to unfortunate fingers. Its contents, however, are practically wafting with toxic fumes. A complete feast of bleach-marinated cucumber sandwiches, arsenic-dusted strawberry parfait, and mercury-stirred lemonade.

The feast is somewhat reduced. Reduced because the Evil Hood has just murdered an entire village with her extraordinarily convincing, contrived kindliness, and a good handful of her poisoned parfait. Contrary to expectations, the Evil Hood’s wicked ways stretch far beyond than simply killing an entire village. Oh, no, she is far more evil than that, far truer to her name. She is hungry for death, particularly that of her grandmother.

There’s a certain appalling...

The Evil Hood and Her Unfortunate (Or Perhaps Fortunate) Demise

The Evil Hood stalks through the deep, dark woods. There’s an evil, twisted smile on her face, and something that looks like blood trickling by the right side of her mouth. Or perhaps that’s just poorly applied lipstick.

She’s armed with a picnic basket. It’s your ordinary, run-of-the-mill picnic basket—cheaply made of glossed wood and providing certain risk of splinters to unfortunate fingers. Its contents, however, are practically wafting with toxic fumes. A complete feast of deadly cucumber sandwiches, killer strawberry parfait, mercury-stirred lemonade.

The feast is somewhat reduced, however. Reduced because the Evil Hood has just murdered an entire village with her extraordinarily convincing, contrived kindliness, and a good handful of her poisoned parfait. Contrary to our expectations, the Evil Hood’s wicked ways stretch far beyond than simply killing an entire village. Oh, no, she is far more evil than that, far truer to her name. She is hungry for death, particularly that of her grandmother.

There’s a certain...

The Replacement

When Madeline opened her eyes that morning, she immediately sensed that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. 

There was an uncanny silence about the house. No birds, chirping noisily outside her window...no annoying little brother careening down stairs...just silence. There was also a person sitting on the edge of her bed.

Not just any person, but someone who looked almost exactly like her. 

If you ignored the fact of how peculiar (and creepy, for that matter) it was to have your doppelganger appear suddenly on your bed, this new Madeline was very, very strange. She had the same shoulder-length black hair, the same wide blue eyes, the same bony shoulders--she was perfectly identical to the original Madeline except for the odd emptiness in her eyes and beneath her pajamas. It was if someone had taken Madeline's appearance and pasted it haphazardly on a wire frame with nothing else but gaps and empty spaces. 

Madeline clutched her duvet and opened her mouth...

#proudofthis - Lost Oceans

"What were oceans like?" asked Ari, tugging on her grandmother's hand.

They were stumbling up a steep incline, when Ari, a bright-eyed little thing, spouted out her question. She windmilled her arms wildly as her dust-filled boots sought purchase on the sandy gravel.

Jen, her grandmother, remained at a loss for words. How could she describe such a vast, indescribable entity--that swirling azure stretch, that crashing, thunderous cliff of waves, that whisper of the faintest break of water, that mystical body that she herself had almost forgotten? She shook her head, as if to clear it of those memories, and allowed herself to murmur platonically to the girl--

"Well, darling, they were large bodies of blue salt water."

Ari paused for a moment, digesting her grandmother's words. She recognized the vague, neutral tone of her textbooks in them but dropped the furling inquisition as she was pulled over another hill. Stuffed in their clunky ventilator suits, Ari and her grandmother...

Salt Sprite

The afternoon sun spills in golden rectangles across the floor, illuminating the cracks and crannies that riddle it. From the lighthouse window, I hear the sea crash against the black rocks in deep howls and roars of whitest foam. The smell of salt is in the air, tantalizingly crisp and bright, reminding me of what I am. 

I am a salt sprite, born of the sea. My mother was the delicate foam on the crests of waves, and my father was the sharp salt air drifting across the water. I used to cavort beneath the surface, dive amongst strands of wavy seaweed, skim the edges of submerged cliffs, sing with my sisters of salt, foam, and wind. I was carefree, but careless.

Out of my six sisters, I was the bravest, yet stupidly so. Though I loved the wind and the waves, I longed to dance on the sandy beach, longed to feel soft grass, longed to stand upon the prow...

Peer Reviews!

Heyo, fellow writers! I saw a post similar to this one and decided I might as well give it a try. Feel free to comment a piece you'd like me to review and I'll try my best to give you good feedback. Disclaimer--I'm not very good at poetry, so prose pieces would be preferable. Peer reviews on my own writing (hehe, shameless plug) would be highly appreciated as well! 

i weave a tapestry of lies

i weave a tapestry of lies,
glimmering gaudily in all its artificial, superficial
glory. 

i weave it deftly, by shade of night,
colors rippling softly, glowing bright,
i tie knots of my dreams, my fears,
and my ambitions,
sew on ribbons of false words,
sequins of half and semi truths.

but every day, my careful 
knots and stitches unravel,
frayed edges, holes widening
into unfixable chasms.

for every thread i tie,
every bit i knot,
another snaps, expires,
falls upon truth's eternal
pyre. 

i'm left drowned beneath 
a tangle of snarled yarn and thread,
and for all my belief of my
falsehood expertise,
i am no better off than dead. 

The Replacement

When Madeline opened her eyes that morning, she immediately sensed that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. 

First of all, the house, which was incredibly noisy at all times during the day except the night, was deathly quiet. And second of all, there was another Madeline sitting on the edge of her bed. 

If you ignored the fact of how peculiar (and creepy, for that matter) it was to have your doppelganger appear suddenly on the edge of your bed, this new Madeline was very, very strange. She had the same shoulder-length black hair, the same wide blue eyes, the same bony shoulders--she was perfectly identical to the original Madeline except for the odd emptiness in her eyes, beneath her pajamas. It was if someone had taken Madeline's appearance and pasted it haphazardly on a wire frame with nothing else but gaps and empty spaces. 

Madeline clutched her duvet and opened her mouth to scream. 

"Shh, shh!" whispered the other Madeline...

#proudofthis - Lost Oceans

"What were oceans like?" asked Ari, tugging on her grandmother's hand.

They were stumbling up a steep incline, when Ari, a bright-eyed little thing, spouted out her question. She windmilled her arms wildly as her dust-filled boots sought purchase on the sandy gravel.

Jen, her grandmother, remained at a loss for words. How could she describe such a vast, indescribable entity--that swirling azure stretch, that crashing, thunderous cliff of waves, that whisper of the faintest break of water, that mystical body that she herself had almost forgotten? She shook her head, as if to clear it of those memories, and allowed herself to murmur platonically to the girl--

"Well, darling, they were large bodies of blue salt water."

Ari paused for a moment, digesting her grandmother's words. She recognized the vague, neutral tone of her textbooks in them but dropped the furling inquisition as she was pulled over another hill. Stuffed in their clunky ventilator suits, Ari and her grandmother...

the taste of regret

regret is a strange, sad feeling that
fills you up with the thought of things you
could have done but 
did not do.

the thought of rain untasted,
falling softly into the dried oasis
arms outstretched to catch the pale drops that
drip past the gaps in your hands,
drop to the ground so
wasted.

the thought of paradises lost,
choked, destroyed, and ruined,
by massive metal monsters and whining
keening machines
lights whirring ceaselessly,
creatures screaming for their homes that are nothing more than
dust and ashes and smoky fires
dead pyres outstretched beneath the
sky.

the thought of battered children trapped
in crumbling buildings,
huddled beside ruins,
scrabbling for the scraps of the future
they were denied.

the thought of hope crushed
underfoot, bruised, and broken
trampled, flailing, desperate
painted black and weeping,
sobbing behind dark curtains,
hidden behind a gray miasma of 
our own creation. 




 

The Girl Who Became a Snail

I am sitting amongst textbooks,
Piled high like paper turrets
Shelves of redundant information,
Worms of highlighter ink
brightly staining every word.

The going is dull--
My notes resemble the squiggly legs of
a crushed spider,
Lines are no longer lines but
Straggly strands of wet seaweed
I fall asleep.

I awake amongst textbooks,
Enormous tomes trembling on an enormous spanse
of wooden tabletop. 
A desk lamp sprouts ginormously,
Sparks light like a blinding sun.

I have no limbs,
I inch across paper leaving behind
Trails of my own incapability,
Slower than ever, 
Spindly body weeping the
Slime of my own sluggishness.

I realize I have
become the girl who became
a snail.  

#proudofthis - Lost Oceans

"What were oceans like?" asked Ari, tugging on her grandmother's hand.

They were stumbling up a steep incline, when Ari, a bright-eyed little thing, had spouted out her question. The girl windmilled her arms wildly as her dust-filled boots sought purchase on the sandy gravel.

Jen, her grandmother, remained at a loss for words. How could she describe such a vast, indescribable entity--that swirling azure stretch, that crashing, thunderous cliff of waves, that whisper of the faintest break of water, that mystical body that she herself had almost forgotten? She shook her head, as if to clear it of those solemn memories, and allowed herself to murmur platonically to the girl--

"Well, darling, they were large bodies of blue salt water."

Ari paused for a moment, digesting her grandmother's words. She recognized the vague, neutral tone of her textbooks in them but dropped the furling inquisition as she was pulled over another hill. Stuffed in their clunky ventilator suits, Ari...

Spiders

The spiders live in the attic. It's their sanctuary, in a sense, blanketed with dust and cobwebs, carpeted in shards of broken glass and bits of books long forgotten. By day, they hide in the nooks and crannies of the rafters, which strain like the ribs of a colossal whale against the weight of the ceiling. And by night, they hunt. 

They have not had suitable prey in a long while. A few squirrels and the occasional stray cat, though sustaining, taste like dust to them. The spiders gnash their mandibles with hunger, but they're ancient, patient creatures. They lay in their webs, and wait. 

                                                                                      ~
The window panes tremor, the spiders murmur, something is coming. Like a gray-black wave of beady eyes and legs, they scuttle over the frame and peer through the cracked windows. The view is shattered and fogged up, but one look is enough.

A car is rattling up the driveway, dead leaves screaming,...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 12

Challenge Completed!

Day 1

Life

That plane of existence we all exist upon in the current moment. Sometimes, existence is hard, seemingly futile, as we're dragged down deep into the depths of despair, forced to face the howling monsters within and outside us. Other times, existence is wonderful, extraordinarily so. And still other times, existence is unexplainable--in that foggy, gray area of in-between emotions. Though it's not always wonderful for me, I hope to see that side of existence in every day of my life, even the not so great ones. The bright side, if you will. 

The cynic would call it "misplaced optimism" - a dreary term that elicits thoughts of a horrible gift given with well-intentions. But, I have realized that even when I'm sitting at the very bottom of the abyss, it's always good to look up, and see that bright glimmer at the top. 

That glimmer is what matters most to me, the things I would miss...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 12

Challenge Completed!

Day 1

Life

That plane of existence we all exist upon in the current moment. Sometimes, existence is hard, seemingly futile, as we're dragged down deep into the depths of despair, forced to face the howling monsters within and outside us. Other times, existence is wonderful, extraordinarily so. And still other times, existence is unexplainable--in that foggy, gray area of in-between emotions. Though it's not always wonderful for me, I hope to see that side of existence in every day of my life, even the not so great ones. The bright side, if you will. 

The cynic would call it "misplaced optimism" - a dreary term that elicits thoughts of a horrible gift given with well-intentions. But, I have realized that even when I'm sitting at the very bottom of the abyss, it's always good to look up, and see that bright glimmer at the top. 

That glimmer is what matters most to me, the things I would miss...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 12

Challenge Completed!

Day 1

Life

That plane of existence we all exist upon in the current moment. Sometimes, existence is hard, seemingly futile, as we're dragged down deep into the depths of despair, forced to face the howling monsters within and outside us. Other times, existence is wonderful, extraordinarily so. And still other times, existence is unexplainable--in that foggy, gray area of in-between emotions. Though it's not always wonderful for me, I hope to see that side of existence in every day of my life, even the not so great ones. The bright side, if you will. 

The cynic would call it "misplaced optimism" - a dreary term that elicits thoughts of a horrible gift given with well-intentions. But, I have realized that even when I'm sitting at the very bottom of the abyss, it's always good to look up, and see that bright glimmer at the top. 

That glimmer is what matters most to me, the things I would miss...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 12

Challenge Completed!

Day 1

Life

That plane of existence we all exist upon in the current moment. Sometimes, existence is hard, seemingly futile, as we're dragged down deep into the depths of despair, forced to face the howling monsters within and outside us. Other times, existence is wonderful, extraordinarily so. And still other times, existence is unexplainable--in that foggy, gray area of in-between emotions. Though it's not always wonderful for me, I hope to see that side of existence in every day of my life, even the not so great ones. The bright side, if you will. 

The cynic would call it "misplaced optimism" - a dreary term that elicits thoughts of a horrible gift given with well-intentions. But, I have realized that even when I'm sitting at the very bottom of the abyss, it's always good to look up, and see that bright glimmer at the top. 

That glimmer is what matters most to me, the things I would miss...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 12

Challenge Completed!

Life

That plane of existence we all exist upon in the current moment. Sometimes, existence is hard, seemingly futile, as we're dragged down deep into the depths of despair, forced to face the howling monsters within and outside us. Other times, existence is wonderful, extraordinarily so. And still other times, existence is unexplainable--in that foggy, gray area of in-between emotions. Though it's not always wonderful for me, I hope to see that side of existence in every day of my life, even the not so great ones. The bright side, if you will. 

The cynic would call it "misplaced optimism" - a dreary term that elicits thoughts of a horrible gift given with well-intentions. But, I have realized that even when I'm sitting at the very bottom of the abyss, it's always good to look up, and see that bright glimmer at the top. 

That glimmer is what matters most to me, the things I would miss if I...

Food Writing Competition 2020

The Lemon-Flavored Endeavors of a Kitchen Idiot

I’m not the best chef. Sure, I can follow a recipe pretty well—as long as I keep my eyes glued to the paper and my hands within reach of measuring tools. There is no inspired sprinkling of this and that, an artistic swirl of that and this. Rather, it’s just me, a terrified teen, following someone else’s recipe exactly and hoping for the best. At least, that’s what I thought.

My metamorphosis from complete kitchen idiot to advanced kitchen idiot began with lemon bars—those buttery, lemon-y confections positively glowing with extra calories you don’t need, but positively jam-packed with that extra flavor you’re craving.

I first encountered lemon bars in a book I was reading, where some character decided to buy a few from a bakery. Being completely ignorant of the confections, I immediately went and searched up “lemon bars” on Google, a decision I do not regret. Image after image of sugar-dusted perfection—sunshine-colored, citrusy custard perched upon buttery crust....

Food Writing Competition 2020

The Lemon-Flavored Endeavors of a Kitchen Idiot

I’m not the best chef. Sure, I can follow a recipe pretty well—as long as I keep my eyes glued to the paper and my hands within reach of measuring tools. There is no inspired sprinkling of this and that, an artistic swirl of that and this. Rather, it’s just me, a terrified teen, following someone else’s recipe exactly and hoping for the best. At least, that’s what I thought.

My metamorphosis from complete kitchen idiot to advanced kitchen idiot began with lemon bars—those buttery, lemon-y confections positively glowing with extra calories you don’t need, but positively jam-packed with that extra flavor you’re craving.

I first encountered lemon bars in a book I was reading, where some character decided to buy a few from a bakery. Being completely ignorant of the confections, I immediately went and searched up “lemon bars” on Google, a decision I do not regret. Image after image of sugar-dusted perfection—sunshine-colored, citrusy custard perched upon buttery crust....