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The Elephant
I lay awake at night sometimes, thinking about the elephant in the metaphorical closet. It sat there quietly, for years, staring endlessly into a darkness I shut inside myself, the door I always closed when I had enough talk. Because I didn’t talk—I found it easier to sit and look out the window some days than to go outside myself; sometimes hearing was all I needed as I lived inside the words of…
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#childhood#elephant#lgbtq+#lgbtq+ fiction#memoir#queer fiction#short fiction#short story#teacher#writing
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| indecision |
My home is made of doors,One stacked on top of anotherTo form the walls of an open cageFrom which I cannot escape–A Winchester house built to Confuse those who would drag me out instead of lead.
I stand at the precipice,More indecision than woman,Wondering if I’ll ever be the answer Instead of the question.
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Cicada // Part 1
The start of some short fiction, and getting back into the habit of writing on a more regular basis!
She remembers that tiny house in the valley like the back of her hand, even though she hasn’t set foot in the town proper since she left all those years ago. She closes her eyes and against the blackness behind her lids she sees the farms and the brick and mortar buildings of downtown. She sees the old YMCA where she took swimming lessons and the stadium where her family huddled under woven…
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papier-mâché // composite of an identity
"The paint is chipping, she thinks, distantly. The paint is chipping and there is only cheap paper underneath, papier-mâché crumbling at the edges."
[2014]
She stands in front of a mirror each day with the lights glaring off of the glass, fracturing her reality with streaks of silver. Sometimes she thinks she can see through the physical form of her body, and her eyes become the sole feature of her face, the black, unknown universe in her eyes. She touches the cold glass, caressing the shadow of her chin. There are no stars, she realizes too…
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93.
"Memory is a blank page for me, / Scooped out with a warmed spoon / And gooey on the tongue, / And I still cannot tell you what brought me / Joy as a child."
Memory is a blank page for me,Scooped out with a warmed spoonAnd gooey on the tongue,And I still cannot tell you what brought meJoy as a child.
I read somewhere that craving loveIs a coping mechanism–Seeking out too often the open armsOf another is a way to fill the voidLeft by family that should have beenthere to catch you.
I look back and I see foggy windows.I hear laughter, muffled by closed…
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#child#childhood#creative fiction#depression#fiction#freeform#literature#memory#past#poet#poetry#poetry collection#writing
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Flirtation with the Future [Rome, Italy]
A moment frozen in time, drenched in rain, where I nearly lost the only method of communication I had in the middle of Europe.
April 6, 2017
What started out as a beautiful and sunny morning devolved into thunder and rainfall by the evening. I thought vacations (i.e. Spring Break) were supposed to be fun–but instead of an expected warm afternoon, we were faced with the possibility of drenched clothing and a rather miserable ride back to the hostel on the subway.
Not only that, but I lost my phone in middle of a…
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these were the futures we never had
Finally getting a backlog of revisions scheduled--some of these are older (and by older I mean pre-pandemic). Others will be more recent. See if you can spot the difference!
2014
When we were four years old, our parents stood us underneath the mistletoe at Christmas, and you told me that the red berries above us scared you because you thought they were poisonous. I laughed, high and obnoxious, but you whispered this against the sleeve of that ugly green sweater you wore every winter, eyes laser focused on the cracks in the tile floor. And as I took your hands after,…
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87.
I left the church at the tenderAge of twelve.A stone too leaden, heavy, settlingIn my belly–My tongue too swollenWith a single syllableI did not know by name.
I could not guess it by the warmth in my chestEvery time she said my name,Bells like lullabies–singing me to sleep–The tears tasted salty-sweet,And I did not know she was an oceanUntil she threatened to swallow me–Jonah in the belly of the…
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Heartbreaker [Four Steps to Carnage]
Heartbreaker [Four Steps to Carnage]
i. you gotta have fun
She goes out on Saturday nights, taking in one after another, and leaves them in her high-heeled wake. It disturbs the neighbors when she leaves them one by one, cardboard cutouts of lonely men left by her wayside. They call out to her on busy streets, and she flips them off as she walks on by, picking and choosing at bars, cafés, clubs, ballparks—wherever and whenever she…
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#creative fiction#heartbreaker#love#MARINA#short fiction#short story#short story sunday#vignette#writing
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A Long Hiatus: Coming Back from a Pandemic
A Long Hiatus: Coming Back from a Pandemic
Readers,
I find it almost funny how little has changed over the past two years.
I took a long hiatus over the pandemic years just for my own peace of mind, and I wrote on and off for several months in between, oscillating between writing longer works, poetry, and short fiction. Much has happened since then. I taught through a pandemic, began working with a professional teaching organization,…
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26.
she called me icarus–underfeeding that naivete does not shrink it, and instead I reached for a sunI knew would burn me
yet, I stayed. accusation–bitter on the tongue and heart,a beat beat beating drum,a xylophone ribcage morphed to prison bars. yet, I longed for the sky.
how can you expect me to stand still,with the taste of salt on my tongue?
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The Rainy Skies of the North [Edinburgh, Scotland]
The Rainy Skies of the North [Edinburgh, Scotland]
February 11, 2017
The English countryside, with its consistently grey skies and quiet solitude, sprawled out in every direction. I’d packed for a weekend, and I listened as the other two–Ashton and Kody–scurried across the dorms on base, our current residence, as they both brought their own luggage around. We decided not long after our arrival in England to explore the island and mainland as…
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67.
I sit at my desk like any other day,
finish my work,
pressing fine lines against crisp paper
I again am the landlord over.
I keep the lock and key
for secrets not worth whispering,
or, rather, ones that are, but are
folded like cards too close to the chest
and I know.
I know my students have a record
for every stupid thing I say,
every slip up slipped out,
every catch phrase I utter in the hallway.
Like a caricature I laugh at myself
half comedian, half performer--
all love.
They have a running tally of
every apology
I have ever given
and received.
"Sorry is just a word,"
I tell them.
Like you can't fix what
you have broken,
two halves of a whole not split cleanly
but shattered,
and I watch bandaged wounds
walk through my classroom daily.
Mom overdosed this weekend.
Dad's on chemo.
My friends broke up with me.
Grandpa is in the hospital.
I lost my family pet.
My family never wanted me,
Who loves me--
Who loves me;
Who loves me.
Who will?
I watch as children fight wars
their parents haven't outfitted them for,
hearts bloodied and bandaged and told,
"Walk it off,"
while they bleed out.
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Siphoning Hope from the Trail [Cliffs of Dover, England]
March 18, 2017
During this time, I find myself aching for English skies.
I look out of the window of my second story classroom on cloudy days, the skies unfolding with a promise of light drizzle and the murmur of a sleepy afternoon. I wish for the pattering of rain on the windowpane, and the fogging of the glass, drawing figures in the condensation.
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45.
I was the boat she
moored in the harbor.
I was neither destination
nor journey–
just a vehicle.
At the end,
the frayed rope
holding me cut,
and I set free.
What they don’t tell you–
the hardest part–
is conjuring up
the helmsman you let go;
it’s convincing yourself:
she never left
in the first place.
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Longing [Denver, CO]
July 2018
I’m not particularly a stranger to Colorado.
I’ve visited a few times, the long winding roads into the mountains a snake fading into the horizon. The purpling clouds hanging overhead in the evening always reminded me of the rainbow skies of an Oklahoma sunset in the summer time, hot wind at my back as I would watch the sun slip into darkness. I’ve spent a few weekends in the…
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Sunny Skies [Barcelona, Spain]
February 5, 2017
We arrived at the hostel late on Friday night, the brightly lit but vacant streets of the sleeping city greeting the three of us –Ashton, Kody, and I–as we walked through the doors into a sleek and modern designed lobby. I hadn’t stayed in a proper hostel in quite some time. The last time was maybe 2012, when I visited Southern Germany with a school exchange program, and I…
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