So I don’t just write on this blog (even though I rarely do that, either, lol). Here are some other places were you can find my work. Feel free to browse through the links and check out what’s up.
What I like to refer to as dramaticus totalus:
I went searching for cigarettes,
But all I found were my father’s
A sonnet about deadly women:
Unaffected by the existence of borders
Nor their speeches garbled by mortal breath.
Beautiful creatures with minds like soldiers
And an all-consuming desire for death.
On the subject of motherhood:
Maggie rests against her mother, whispering a soft “goodnight” mere moments before her lids drop and she falls asleep. Her mother remains still, listening to the intake and outtake of Maggie’s soft breath, watching her body rise and fall, feeling the strong, rhythmic beat from her heart. Then she feels it. Her own heart constricts as her mind wanders into a place she taught herself to veer away from.
On the subject of suicide and family:
She doesn’t quite understand what she feels. The breeze, the cushion against sure death, is granting her powers. She feels unstoppable. She feels invincible. There’s a sound below her with still waters, the surface only broken by small islands barely large enough to fit a house. Everything is green and fresh around her, so unlike the terrain they had to travel through to get here.
Her brother finally catches up to her, slumped forward with his hands on his knees. The hike is worth seeing everything at the top. The sound turns into a river far off in the distance, and even further it turns into the ocean. But, with it being so early in the morning, fog covers the mountains and the great big blue like a white, gauzy shroud.
Directly beneath them is sheer rock, a two-thousand-foot drop to icy water.
As you can see, I’m a little obsessed with water and mermaids.
There was a legend in town that monsters lived in the murky depths of the sound, ready to feast on the flesh of any fisherman who dared to sail on it. The water was dark with a quality that made it resemble churning syrup, ready to trap its victims and suffocate them if they got too close. The boy had gotten close, just not close enough for that.
You can also find me in these places:
The Young Writers Literary Journal (“The Opal Titan” on pp106-110)
Scribendi Magazine (to be disclosed soon)