Showing posts from 2016

A Kir Royal

“So, do you want ice cream?” Shirtless asked. We were sitting in a bar, it was late at night, and almost everyone had gone home. The bartender was wiping down tables, collecting broken glasses off the floor and wounded soldiers from chairs and toilet seats. Who takes a drink to the bathroom? The man sitting next to me was shirtless and I may have been too drunk to decently say, but I thought he looked damn good like that. I would have asked him to come home with me but “home” was lacking a definition at the moment. In my hand was a Bloody Mary, half finished. The other half was sitting in my stomach, giving me the buzz I needed to chase away my thoughts until morning. I’m sorry, let me correct myself. It wasn’t a buzz. It was a horde of angry wasps. I didn’t want those thoughts to come back. Ever. I had walked into that bar with every intent to drink until I passed out and choked on my own vomit. And I was well on my way too, until some dumbass took my purse with every last remaining…

No. 7: Part 1

Neco, Neco, Neco. The Latin chant hums through my head, blocks any thoughts, any emotions, any memories. The ladle feels heavy in my hands, why do I have that again? I lift it to my head. The handle is covered in apple juice. My hand is covered in apple juice. I scream and drop the ladle. It thermoses until it hits the floor. Bits of liquid splatter everywhere, covering my feet, my legs, my face. I can taste something metallic on my tongue. The chanting grows louder and louder, closer and closer. A scalpel steps from the darkness, its body teetering left and right as it moans. The ladle is stuck in its chest. It’s leaking apple juice. No, it’s leaking blood. I killed that man.
I am a computer. I’ve been programmed to do only one thing. Kill or be killed. There are a thousand of ways to achieve this goal, but in the end, the objective is the same. My programmer and caretaker Scythe calls me Septem or Sept for short. I’m the seventh of his creations, the newest in his series of killing …


Not so much a story (that'll come later on this week) but I made my first chapbook! XD
I won't indulge you into the history of Chapbooks, (mostly because I know so little about the history) but to put it simply I collected a few pieces I made and gathered them in a pamphlet style booklet.

I printed 20 copies, but after handing most of them to my writing class, three to my uber driver and 1 to my housekeeper, I'm left three. :(
Needless to say, I'm super proud of this accompliment. It's so satisfying to see my work in a physical form.

I was thinking of posting a digital spread of my piece, for people to read. But I'm curious, would anyone be interested?

Wounds Like Pearls

She placed her head against my shoulder, both a caress and a cry for attention. I mountained a hand against her back and felt the soft skin turn into scars. She was in pain, and I knew my meddling didn’t help but someone needed to look. Needed to feel her body in a way she didn’t even feel it herself. I stroked her sheets, her legs, her hands, her ears, trying to understand how she worked. She looked up at my face, questioning, her breathing eyes avoiding direct contact with mine. I moved my hands to her head; she loved being patted, before letting her curl up on my lap. Her stomach rose and fell steady as the sea. I turned back to my locust and wondered how I can stop the scars from forming. All along her back, apples had sprung up, angry and red, seeping sticky ooze. Her ears were worse, the edges caked with black and purple pearls that fell off over time, only to come back with each scratch. Behind her ear, another pool had opened up. The old layer of cotton hung to her skin …


City of Water

(A/N: More of a travel writing piece than fiction but still pretty enjoyable)
Walking early morning in Venice, I felt as if I wassubmerged underwater. The streets were no bigger then alleyways and the buildings loomed, blocking the sun. My breath grew shallow as claustrophobia welled in my stomach. Left, right, the smell of fresh bread mixed with rotting wood, glass and precious stones glimmering from a shop window like sunlight under the sea, down a dead end, turn around, a brick wall, peeking through, school boys play on a small soccer field, their shrill cries breaking the morning stillness. We got lost, but that had been our purpose all along. We stumbled onto the main canal where a crowd of art students sketched the likeness of a large baroque building into their notebooks. Curious, we wandered around them, watching beauty pour from real life onto their page. We dived back into the alleyways. Turn left, Turn right, up and down, at every bridge crossing we breathed in the pungent…


I still don't think I understand death.  I don't remember when my grandfather died but I didn't like him very much. His kisses were wet like a dog's licks and his mustache would scrape at my cheek. He would coo and caw around me which was always a sight because he was a big man, the type of man who was in charge, who knew exactly what needed to be done. My grandmother and aunt would trail behind him, subservient and meek. So meek in fact, that I remember them shaking as they held me, like willow trees trying to a baby in a windstorm. I couldn't trust them. When grandpa died, I remember being the first one to see him at the wake. I remember running ahead of my parents, curious to see a dead body, wanting to get a look before anyone else. No one stopped me, I don’t think anyone even realized I was there. His body had been placed at the end of a long carpeted hallway. One side had these tall windows that looked out into a courtyard. I remembering entering the room and t…