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.

Short Story | Salvia and Dandelion Bouquet

    Bright-eyed, young girl. But not blue or green. That usually didn’t matter—not in every case. It only ever hurts when you're right there. And I can see you working, your hand in your hair, brushing it back. You blink and you flush, you purse your lips, and again, you tilt your eyes down, back at your work. I can see you working. The tide falls away, and I don’t care. For a moment. Then I fall back in—I don’t know why. I hate the cliché and the overdone, but I can’t help how my mind only works in loops.

    Fingertips tap against the blank, dark table, thinking about something distant and unreachable. My hair isn’t blonde; for you, I could imagine that it were. My skin isn’t delicate like powder or freckled across my nose. I’m un-American, feasibly. I gather my stones and weigh them in a paper scale, add wood chips to one side, pebbles in the other. I pick up a stick, and suddenly, it’s my sword. I stain my knees green and rip my skin against asphalt. I can’t imagine being any older, but time is cruel and passes regardless.

    The promise of reciprocation is at the mercy of generosity. For un-American girls. The rain makes my clothes wet, and I squeeze out the residual drops, even though I still stand in the downpour. The dress I’ll make will be blue, and the shoes I’ll wear will leave my feet bubbled and aching. I’ll stand outside, sinking into murky dirt, the pedestal that makes me taller sinking further into the earth. I’ll whisper things to the snowfall, admit that I can’t recognize dream from reality.

    There’s no screen on the window, no barrier from the roof. I step out, recognizing the creak of the tile and the anticipatory slip from my bare feet in the frigid cold. I’ll sit on the snow, let my body tense as it absorbs the ice from the weather and paints the terracotta tile. Four feet from the ledge, and I don’t reach out or look over—I’m stuck to the clapboard sheathing. White snow falls from a dark sky; only when the ground is painted cold enough does the sky seem lighter and the moon brighter. I paint freckles onto my nose, imagine my skin shedding away to be brighter, more lovely. My hair tenses up and coils unnaturally; the snow coats my hair and paints it brighter. I close my eyes.

    And for a moment, you’re there—but I’m uncomfortable in this cold, and the snow on my feet has already melted. I reach for the windowsill, sliding against the side of my house, unfamiliar with the texture of the exterior. I swing one leg through, then the other, and I land on my bed. My clothes are wet in some places and damp in others. But I’m warm now, even though I still shake. It doesn’t matter, because I’ll end up outside again tomorrow night.