Short Story | Under Oceans Boulevard

 Gloriana Cocci is the spiritual healer off of Carver Street and Oceans Boulevard. I heard of her through my mother's friend who saw my troubles and felt for me, handing me off to her best doctor. I arrived at her doorstep—a stripped door held open by an ordinary large stone—and she greeted me with a faint smile and a burning gaze. Her jewelry was gold and her teeth were slightly yellowed from whatever she usually smoked. The walls were tainted from both that and her incense, which made the room feel heavy.

I told her my name, she told me hers to which I replied,

"I know,"

All she gave me was a look, not quite aggressive but still intense.

"What troubles you?"

All I could offer was silence. I stared at the Persian rug, my hands feeling heavy in my lap. I felt a shrug without moving, a beat of silence offering itself as a buffer between me and the tumultuous crowds of insincerity. 

"Nothing." I finally replied. "I'm restless, my mother says. And my father notices that I cry too often about things that don't matter."

Gloriana Cocci didn't nod or hum in acknowledgment. She stared at me.

"What do you want?" She asked, but in the way that felt like she was asking me several other different questions that usually would make my head spin. I tapped against the stretched leather of the chair, making myself smaller so that the words that would come out wouldn't hurt the present.

"Want?"

"Yes, want."

"Not having what I want doesn't trouble me. I just feel... irregular."

"Do you want to feel regular?"

"I want to know how to live my own life without constantly worrying about the other lives that I live in my head."

She tilted her head, sort of in the way that felt like she was picking at my skin, like trying to find the loose end.

"You want to be alone."

I groaned in frustration, then immediately feeling guilty in expressing my restlessness outwardly towards her. "I want to live one life."

She let out a sharp laugh, her eyes not moving from mine. She looks deep into my character, her figurative fingers finding each fold of my brain and gripping on, pulling and prodding with only her stare.

"You're sixteen, what do you know about life?"

Poetry | Vestige

Why does loneliness infect the many? Of children sitting atop metallic slides,

Holes in their shoes filled with wood chips and pebbles alike,

A bench that is frequented but never used, 

Why stop and breathe the air when it whips past when running?

Effervescent qualities of these little life, I used to hold but lost with time,

Punctuated, pulsing, parting paths.

For some oblivious, for some cautious,

Knee scrapes and splinters akin, blood has a different meaning guarded by youth,

Trial scorned the innocent and bruised lineages,

All lonesome, she said, can't be helped these days.

Short Story | Forth of July

  The stark lines of the horizon separate the land and the sky. The stars twinkling above casting a faint glow on our faces.

“Do you think that they can see us from up there?” I ask, my gaze fixated on the stars.

“What, the spaceships?” She says hushed, her hair splayed across the blades of grass.

I nod and hum, shrugging my shoulders. “Yeah, the astronauts.” I pause for a moment, the chirping cicadas bringing a familiar ambience to that of family night barbeques on the fourth of July or camping in the Westwood forest. The words sit on my tongue, as if ready to spill but the tension on the surface is trying its best to hold it in. I sigh, “I wonder if we look like ants to them.”

“Who cares?” She says with a big sigh, stretching out her arms. She stands up, wobbly at first but holds her hand out towards me. I look up at her and nod, taking her hand. We return back to the party, the noisy birthday blowers, laughing, and chatting, filling up the air as we stride towards them. It’s much brighter here, but the stars seem dimmer. My eyes keep returning to the sky every once in a while, like it’s inevitable or obvious. Then, I’ll return back to the strums of the party, standing besides Ally as her idiot brother pops and sucks on the plastic balloons.
“Look! I’m on cloud nine!” He shouts, his voice at a ridiculously high frequency. He holds my number nine balloon and I frown as I see the top of the number curl in on itself. I scoff and yank back the balloon, “That’s mine, thank you.” I say, rolling my eyes. I look at Ally and shake my head, she reads my mind as if she were placed right inside of it. Of course she knows, I could communicate with her just by a single glance. Isn’t that what best friends are for?

The chorus of awful, off-tune singing starts. The “Happy Birthday” song is so overused and recycled and repetitive, but it’s like tradition. You just have to sing it, even if everyone sings a different additional ending. Ally, I could tell, stares at my white frosted cake like a man starved. But, I laugh and cut the cake anyway, us both eating the first bite at the same time. Just like we always have since pre-school. 

I groan and nod, “This is so good.” I say, pointing at the raspberry jelly on the inside. I scrape away the extra frosting and plop it onto hers, her raspberry jelly forming a sliding mound on mine. We both laugh and eat our cakes, just when I notice my parents stepping back inside. I look over at the clear sliding door from the table outside, watching as my mom furrow her brows and her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. My dad turns on a light in the kitchen, holding out his hands in explanation. He seems both defensive and sorry simultaneously and my mother looks like she’s disappointed and frustrated simultaneously. It’s always simultaneity that worries me the most. It always makes things too complicated and impossible to understand.

I feel a nudge to my shoulder, “Let’s go see the stars again, before I have to leave.” Ally says, sliding her empty plate onto the table.

“I told you the stars are interesting, you’re just too stubborn.” I say, shaking my head. She hums and rolls her eyes playfully, “I’m not stubborn, I’m a perfectly good height for my age.” She says, puffing her chest.

“That’s not what stubborn means, idiot.” I say, scoffing. 

“That’s what it should mean, though. I mean, ‘stub’ … ‘born’... You’re born a stub?- Whatever, let’s just go before I change my mind, you dictionary.” She shakes her head, pulling at my wrist.