Excerpts
About
Most of the time, I write records of imagined scenes in my head. They appear extremely random and often build their own imaginary people. They can be influenced by things I am seeing in real life or how I am feeling. The more scenes I get, the more a bigger story is uncovered.
When I write, I am focused on capturing the feelings, thoughts, and environment, a little more than I am on the overall steps of the story. Of course, fully fleshed short stories will have clearer points.
Ronnie’s Drunk
2023
Ronnie continued to vomit a pool on himself. His hair was laminated to his skin and water droplets dappled his face. Danny carried him to the tub and tried washing him off. It was pointless since he reputrified himself every time he threw up. So Danny set him on his side and let him get it all out first. With his hand on his back, he could feel Ronnie’s vomit gurgle up his stomach and splash into the dulled porcelain tub. As he washed Ronnie, the fumes soaked into the paint on the walls and fibers of their clothes. His head started to ache and his eyes grew sorely dry but watered at the same time. From the stench, he gagged himself quite a few times. Ronnie’s puke was like chunky brown milk. Like a really bad slushy. It was warm and sticking to all of Danny’s fingers and arm hair. It didn’t help that Ronnie was squirming like a beached whale. He splashed a few chunks up on Danny’s face. Sometimes Danny questioned his decisions.
The Foster House
2024
Suddenly, she’s pullin’ me across the house before I can finish saying thank you. We pass white doors until my eyes are flowered with this pale rose-pink room. I feel like I’m stepping on clouds. My toes dig into the cushioned floor of a pristine pearl carpet. Its fibers reach between my toes and leave my footsteps behind. In the center, against the wall, a dark sea-green cover drapes over a full-sized bed. It must be stuffed with the finest swan feathers to create such a luxurious plush. She throws the cover up and jumps inside. I worry I might lose her like Alice in a rabbit hole. I throw the cover up and find her lying inside. Her hair sprawls in royal swirls made of Indian silk shining like gold marble. She clambers out to the light where her gray tinted skin shows its tarnishings. Closer and closer, her face is inches from mine and suddenly I find myself resting against what I imagine angel cake must feel like. Her eyes remain the same innocent doe-sloped buttons I remember. With pearly whites that must have been decorated with the most expensive blue oil paints. Ones that swirl with shades and hues of an overly saturated Starry Night. Ones that glow brighter than stars and bleed softer than watercolor. Both topped with the finest varnish only a god could have crafted and poured flawlessly into her pockets for eyes.
Her legs lay at my sides with the weight of a cat's paws. Our breaths waltz in sync as our bellies press together gently. I hold her dainty feet in the palms of my hands…..and then I remember. Remember it’s my job to protect such fragileness and I don’t know if I’m qualified. I get scared all over again.
What is Man
2024
His fingers trickle down my neck and back up into my hair. My roots piling one way and falling back another is a feeling I don’t know the words for. People have talked about how a mother’s hands in your hair is a unique feeling you just can’t replace. I didn’t get that as a kid, but if I did, I imagine it would be like this. As his hands glide on my skin, I feel like I can sense each groove in his fingerprint strumming the atoms of my hair and skin. My skin cells relax like they just got into a hot tub.
When he runs a hand up my neck, I curve my spine up into it like a cat’s back, opening up my entire neck to him. I realize I’m no longer curled up but am in starfish mode. He works his way from that hairless patch of skin behind my ears to my collar bones, to my shoulders, to my biceps, to the little dip in my elbow. His fingers spread across my forearms and come back together as if a jellyfish is walking down my arms. Then he pushes into my wrist and massages them between each of the little bones in my hand. I never knew forearms and hands could be massaged. The duds of his fingers sink between mine, pushin’ them apart using the grooves in his print to scratch the webs of my fingers. A scratch I didn’t know I needed. Next he’s tracing the lines of my palms and it’s better than somebody gettin’ that spot you can’t reach. My body releases a big exhale and I feel the static blood in my veins flowing.
He keeps one hand on mine and brings his other back into my hair. I rest my head back and open my eyes. He returns my gaze and smiles. I feel his legs turn inward like a bashful child gifted a newborn puppy. I know he must be beaming on the inside.
End of the World
2018
As I walk down the disheveled sidewalk, I feel the cold breeze brush upon my face. I keep my head down as I walk alone in the silent night. It’s late and I know I will have to sneak myself back into the house. I feel light-headed and my stomach is twisting. Distorted, blurry silhouettes with vague gleams of light are all I see. I rely on my left eye to lead me home. Blind in my other eye, it swells with throbs like a heartbeat.
No stores are open and there are no cars to pass by. Only the company of corpses lay around me. My legs are straining to carry me and my back aches to hold me up. The wind dries my skin and my cheeks become tight and sore. The bruises and slices in my skin light fire from the gentlest touch. I inch closer and closer to home. My neighbors all lay dead in their beds. I can hear the few surviving soldiers wandering endlessly in their aching, experimented hearts; their sorrowful cries echo relentlessly. My porch light stands alone and I can see the light shining through my parents’ bedroom. I watch their silhouettes' pace.