All posts filed under: writing

(short stories! prose! poetry! editorials!) narratives and abstract retellings of things for imaginations to count ✍️

Outside Gate 2.5

Outside Gate 2.5 Here, I am the rich. I, ilk of captive grasslands; interim of conversation and strangers of shared descent. This discomfort will follow – as oxide stains the validity of tonsils, leaked of coarse throat, straining, frugal with desire to be heard. I abuse the story I come from. Here, a gun asks for a namesake. His crippled hips grin of a lawless history, scorned of the 70s. Hands shuffle us inside. Tell us for a moment, we must finally scream for our own selves. I, voiceless for a future, has entanglement clock our sameness, our waning fear of living. Inside, they pick up all our mangled selves, sputtered of wax; and so we become ember, holding onto life again. We become your voice, ascent to fueling the ends of times, like gunshots splayed of freefall towards streets. Here, I am the rich, burdened of word – further, they tell us not to fight again. Further, they say we do not seek them. To this I wonder the requirement of boiling my skin, …

overachiever fever

I am sinking my guts as fervently as I feel the pen sliding across my throat, twisting my organs, slithering across a paper of items I do not understand. My mind flashes back to every single failure that we have ever sung. Every lapse of ungreatness and unfulfilled fervor is a crime to humanity. An unabiding dishonor of traipse for the ones who carry my name to lament. This is a foul cry for the ones who do not deserve to do so — whittled down to self-depreciation at the instant. Wherever it started, whatever had happened — they’ve all clung to this despondent nothingness. A melancholia for the person that I had never been, not once a sign of forgiveness for the person that I could be. We are destined, intertwined, by faith and numbers and chance and cash and time and lovers and passion and spirit and uncountable things that remain out of our control; as we are destined by faith to crash and die. My fondest memories from my childhood were not …

—is it not the death of a firefly

A story about a funeral in the dead of the summer. With the relapse of summer on its idyllic deathbed, I once again draw nothing with the close. It is the same feeling that follows me with every untimely visit to living mortuaries in the outskirts of city, bordered by red district lights and the wick of laden candles. Where concrete becomes an overture to a short-lived piece that we drag on and on.

damsel of the craters

A living ghost is a moment’s grasp from the underworld. Sheathed in writhing emptiness; an abyss that everyone has made of her along with white lace, intertwined dandelions on the holes and darts (the only remnants of the love that she once bound). The dead cannot love — it is upon the cataract time-stop beat, the drawl of the flat-line and the rapid walk unto the “bad wing”. She is the reason why her dying breaths consisted of “keep loving” — why the paper airplanes she folded with bone poking out of skin were etched with “keep living,” why she was smiling, pursed lips and all, your softness against her own. An old discman next to water-filled speakers like a joke against the revolution of technology. During those final hours where she played music and spun brittle yarn emerging from her throes. I danced with the daughter of the moon on the infinity evening of a Tuesday night. She counted down, like an old grandfather clock — the continuum ring until a new inception. We were ethereal …

the deafening of a heartbeat.

ie: something that we have come to be familiar with in so many ways. We are used to the dawning of hope, inceptions of promise — something bland and stupid like love or things that last. Let me tell you that we have seen little bits and pieces of the end, captured the procurement of nihilism and antagonistic self-hatred. We are the beginning of the end, in the stories that should have never been told. i. in the coffee shop. her name is scrawled on, it is generic and placid — just as the life that is reaming within the lines of creamer. her order was taken wrong but she doesn’t say anything against it; the apron-donned mass serves it with apathy, accent ridden from the dwellings of a hundred miles over. stir, the window is tinged with a hue of emerald. stir, the marbling of the floor reminds her of the corner tile she had grown to memorize in her mother’s home. stir, the eyes of the lone student in the corner are as brown …

all the words we could sow

I was supposed to join a spoken word event called Words That Matter, but other things got in the way. I wrote these pieces by asking my friends — “what’s your favorite word?” and  having them expound on it a little bit more. They were all pretty much penned on the day of the event itself, but never got to leave the confines of my phone and the almighty internet cloud. Your favorite word speaks volumes about you. Your favorite word, out of all the other possibilities in the English language — just thinking about how you can isolate a single one and deem it as your own is kind of mind boggling. There are stories. Promises. Memories. All placed behind these words, that people just dare toss around — not knowing how much it can inflict on you, affecting you, taking you. Language is something that I’ve always taken for granted, but have learned to love in a new special way the more I’ve aged. Language is a gift, and to come with words …

a self-orchestrated, half-drunken ramble towards demise

when i was a kid i used to pray every single night. it went something like this: in the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit, god i love everything. i love all the galaxy and the universes and the stars and the sun and the moon and the planets and the earth and the clouds and the rain and the trees and the dogs and the rollercoasters and the books and the oceans and the sea and the lighthouses and all the food and the people who make the food and the dust and the grass and the rice and the eggs and the houses and the doors and the beds and my grandfather and my grandmother and my yaya and my cousins and mommy and my daddy and my sister and myself. bless us all. i am sorry for everything bad i have done, please help me get better always since i love getting better. i love the world i want to be better. please help me. …

Exulansis

As defined by the dictionary of obscure sorrows; exulansis is “the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land.” Exulansis is me finding reason in letting thoughts loose, never checking how they’re arranged, puzzling equations grasped together and intertwined; my mind is racing, never appeased and a constant. All is as it is.

Solstice

The scorching sun, perturbed tidal waves beat like marching drums across the horizon. Leaf-lace, bottle bits, open wounds — newfound discoveries. This is the summer song, a cadet’s call for a voyage towards ubiquity. Yet the soldier is always so fragile — and home was never quite red brick and polished acacia floors; but the barefoot tread into the entrenches of a million little blades culling themselves in the midnight breeze. I feel like our rooftop was always meant to be the broad expanse of a million glowing torches, floating and beaming in little stardust trails. We find them so enticing we mouth little sounds and depress chapbooks with intonations until we find them tranquil enough to deem them as the ‘galaxies’; and in this way the solstice was born. An army spread about a million little shrivels of greenery stare at the droplets tracing their skin – they fall in love with the way their spine tingles at the ray’s fluid kisses; how the breeze comes every now and then and how the sky never …