Rises the Sun
prose
Prematurely, the sun has set once again. Although it is hard to see in the dark, you need not squint when a small boy is terrorized and swept up again and again and again, both here and there at the White Middle Sea. His parents dress him in a bright blue knitted hat in hopes of keeping him warm amidst the setting Ecuadorian sun. But here too, the sun has gone, taken by cold hands channeled with cold blood pumped by cold hearts. The children are frigid and stand tired. Helplessly, they wait to feel the sun on their skin. Tightly packed away somewhere, nowhere, torn apart families cram on cement floors and hope to see the light of day once more. A lonely father prays for his son, that wherever he might be, there is another lonely father there to keep him warm. The cold wrath is inflicted upon anyone who dares listen to their own heart beat. People are killed and shot after they’re dead. But the people stand again. You must sew your pockets and bundle up as they do. Only together will we sing the song that rises with the sun.
Sense of Living
a short story
I lost my eye two Thursdays ago. My left hand is down to a nub. They don’t know I use that one. It’s hard to believe they were trying to spare me, offer me a sliver of kindness for the crime that is committed in being born. My grandfather must have signed my life away when he shot that woman in Vietnam. Got told she was carrying something that’ll blow. She was running before they saw her—before my grandfather was ordered to raise his gun. He shot her three times in the back. Went up to her afterward only to find a tightly bundled baby in her arms. The bullets passed right through them both. No sense of living after that. You can either have morals or follow orders. And a man without morals isn’t alive.
My grandfather got up for work one Tuesday morning, put on an almost black tie, drank a cup of coffee, and went to the movies. He got himself a 9 a.m. ticket for Jaws 2 and shot himself in the head 27 minutes in—gun-in-mouth style. Unluckily, a young boy skipped school that day. He had been bullied the day before and was shaking so bad that morning his mother skipped work too. They sat only two rows behind him. The bullet went right through my grandfather’s skull, hitting the boy in the chest. The boy lived … in a sense. That’s all anyone can say about my grandfather.
A crow has been following me my whole life. As a kid, I never had many friends, so I would call a crow a friend. Occasionally a crow would bring me a twig or piece of glass or something.
On the morning of my 18th birthday, I went for a walk to see if the trees looked any different. They didn’t. Neither did the pavement—all crumbly and dangerous. A crow perched atop the streetlamp in the parking lot of the grocery store. That streetlamp no longer turned on at night. We shared a look. I could tell she was wishing me a happy birthday. I went into the store because I had walked all the way over there. Upon reaching some destination, I felt weird—out of place. Everyone in the shopping center saw me and knew I had nothing to do. Too bad I wasn’t hungry because there’s not much else to do in a grocery store. I grabbed a Pink Lady apple, and two tumbled to the floor. Idiot. I replaced one of the floor ones with the one in my hand. I stacked the remaining two apples on the apple pyramid where they belonged for now. My apple sat bare on the conveyor belt. A boy near my age picked it up and made some beep sounds on the register. When he handed it back to me, I noticed the dirt underneath his nails. He smiled kindly. I smiled back, pretending I wasn’t thinking about the last time he washed his hands.
Walking out of the store, I looked for my crow friend. She’d gone off, probably in the sky somewhere. I looked up for her and saw about a thousand crows flocking the sky—a beautiful sight. Then they all came down on me. They rained like cement slabs in a blown up city, crushing and beating me down, destroying the apple too. Can’t forget about the apple. That’s when I acknowledged they’d never been looking out for me, only waiting. They wait to swoop in and attack. That first attack wasn’t all too bad, but it did leave me disfigured. This was fine as I had never been pretty. Although, I thought maybe I could be one day.
From that day forward, the attacks just kept getting worse. My face, scarred and cratered, has a nice texture to it. I rub my cheeks when I’m feeling nervous, when I feel the crows coming along. I’m only 23, and two Thursdays ago they took my eye. My left hand’s a nub. My nose is clean off; bones picked right out of my body; ligaments are strewn, chewed, and spat back out for no good reason. Pieces of me scatter the street just to dry out in the heat into some sort of film, embraced only by the souls of passersby. I wish to conjure a hungry animal to eat what's left of me. But they wouldn't like that. They just wait for the rain and hope it'll wash us away. My depth perception is screwed, but I can still see. I shall not be blind! Take my arm, take my heart, but you mustn’t take my last eye!
Your Shoes Fit Me Just Fine
prose
When I lie in your room surrounded by all the things you think makes you you I feel it too. And I can be happy looking at a framed photo of a couple of kids, wondering where they’ve been. So is it alright if I sit by your shoes and pretend that they fit me fine? Just for a small bit of time until I slip back into what’s mine.
Rot
a short story
ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʀᴜᴇ; ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴋɪʟʟ ʜɪᴍ. ɪᴛ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ. ɪ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʀᴇᴍᴏʀꜱᴇ. ... ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ɪꜱ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ—ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʏᴇꜱ! ʜɪꜱ ꜰɪʟᴛʜʏ, ʙʟɪɢʜᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴘʀʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʀᴇʟʏ, ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘ ᴀᴛ ʟᴀꜱᴛ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇ! ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴ’ꜱ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ. ɪ ꜱʜᴀʟʟ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ʙᴇᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʟᴜᴅɢᴇᴅ ᴘᴀʟᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʜ—ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇɴᴄᴀꜱᴇꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɴᴀɪʟ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴋɪɴᴅ, ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴀɴ—ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ. ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ꜰɪʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ. ɪ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴜᴍꜱ ʀᴏᴛ—ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴀɪᴠᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋɪɴ, ꜱᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴅɪʀᴛ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ, ꜱᴏ ɴᴏᴡ ɪ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ ʀᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ. ɪ ʀᴇᴇᴋ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴛ—ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴜʟ ꜱᴛᴇɴᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇɢʟᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴇʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ. ɪ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ꜰɪʟʟꜱ ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴘʟᴜᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ! ɴᴏ! ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇɴ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ! ʜɪꜱ ɢʀɪᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ɪꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴅᴏᴏʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅꜱ ɴᴏ ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ. ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴏɪʟ-ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ꜱᴏ ʙᴀʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴘʟᴜᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴜʟꜱɪᴠᴇ ꜱɪɢʜᴛ. ʜɪꜱ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏʀʀᴏᴡ ᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪꜱ ᴅɪꜱɢᴜꜱᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴ. ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛɪᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴏᴡ ɪɴ ꜱɪᴢᴇ. ʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴡ ꜱᴏʀʀɪᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʟʟ ʜɪꜱ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ, ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘɪᴛɪꜰᴜʟ. ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ’ꜱ ꜱᴏʀʀᴏᴡꜰᴜʟ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴘᴇᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ɢɪɢᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ᴏʜ, ʜᴏᴡ ᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʟᴀʀɢᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪʀᴛɪᴇʀ. ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴅꜰᴜʟ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ʙᴀʀʀɪᴄᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴜꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ᴍᴀɴ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ɪ’ᴅ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴄʀᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴀɴᴏᴍᴀʟʏ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀ ꜱɪʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ. ʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴍᴀɴ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ɪᴛ. ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ɪɴ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀᴋᴇ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱɪꜰʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ. ʜᴇ ꜱQᴜᴇᴇᴢᴇꜱ ʜɪꜱ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴛᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱʜʀɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ—ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ʜᴇ ʜᴇʟᴅ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴘᴀʟᴍ! ᴏʜ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛ! ɪᴛ ꜰɪʟʟꜱ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ʙᴜʀʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ. ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏɴɢ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɴᴀɪʟꜱ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋᴜʟʟ; ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ. ɪ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ. ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ꜱᴋɪɴ. ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ! ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀᴍ ɪ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇ? ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀᴍ ɪ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ? ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴏɴ ᴍᴇ, ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴏɪʟᴇᴅ ꜱᴛᴇɴᴄʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍᴇ. ɪ ꜱᴍᴇʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ ɪᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ.
ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ꜱʜʀɪɴᴋ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀᴀᴢʏ! ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ! ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴇxᴀᴍɪɴᴇ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ?
ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴄᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ꜰʀᴇᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇ ʜɪᴍ! ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ, ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴜʟ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴅɪᴇ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛʀᴜᴇ. ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴋɪʟʟ ʜɪᴍ.
ꜱʜʀɪɴᴋ: ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ. ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴜꜱ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇɴ, ᴀɴᴅ “ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ. ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇ ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴜʟᴛɪᴇꜱ, ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴡ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴀʙʟᴇ, ɪɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ, ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇʜᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ!"
“ɪɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ, ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇʜᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ.” ᴏʜ, ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ! ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʀᴜᴇ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ, ɴᴏʀ ɪ, ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇɴ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ! “ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇ …” ʏᴇꜱ, ɪ ᴀɢʀᴇᴇ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛʀᴜᴇ. ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴇɴ, ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ. ʏᴇꜱ, ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪᴍ—ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ! ʜɪꜱ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋᴇɴᴇᴅ ɴᴀɪʟꜱ. ᴏʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ; ʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴡꜱ ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴇᴇʟʏ. ɪꜱ ɪᴛ ɢʀᴏᴡɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ? ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏɪʟ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴀɪʟꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴄᴀʀᴅɪɴᴀʟ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴏɪʟ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ʀᴇᴘᴜʟꜱɪᴠᴇ. ɪꜱ ɪᴛ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ? ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴇ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ, ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛɪᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰɪʟʟ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ; ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ—ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴅᴏᴡɴ. ᴏʜ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴ. ɪ ᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʜɪᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ. “ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴡ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴀʙʟᴇ” ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀɪᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʙʟɪɢʜᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ ᴍᴇ.
ɪᴛ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ɴᴏ ʀᴇᴍᴏʀꜱᴇ, ꜰᴏʀ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ. “ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ. ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇ ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴜʟᴛɪᴇꜱ, ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴡ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴀʙʟᴇ, ɪɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ, ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇʜᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ!"
Drunk Letter to a Dear Friend of Mine
a drunk letter to a dear friend of mine
Plum Problem
a short story
It’s that time of the year again when Miss Rin brings me plums. I’ve never seen Miss Rin beyond my front porch. She used to come every other Saturday when I first moved in. Now she comes both Saturdays and sometimes the Sundays after. I like to imagine that behind the little lilac house, sits a gigantic garden home to only plum trees. In the mornings, Miss Rin delicately attends to her garden while Mister Rin prepares plum tarts.
I don’t have the heart to tell Miss Rin I detest plums. I threw up on them once as a kid. “I’m so happy you moved into the neighborhood! No one here accepts my plums. They won’t even try them! These folk prefer their fancy store bought plums.” Miss Rin said to me on the first Saturday. So I take her plums. Some days, I give them to my parents or friends. Other days, I let them sit until they rot. Today, my kitchen reeks of rot. I fear she comes to my door too often. I do not know enough mouths to consume this mountain of plums.
It’s Wednesday morning when I decide to toss the rotted plums. I deep clean the kitchen, getting rid of all odor when I hear a knock on my door. It’s Miss Rin. She has never come on a Wednesday.
To Another Destruction
a poem
Now I see rain as drops of blood because rivers flood
And all I do is wait for the day to come
To watch the world sink and make way
For another power
A funny new way of destruction
Life can fade
Lets all go away and give it up
To another destruction
My momma calls and daddy writes
You’ve been gone some time
I’m tryna solve a problem
Be back in a little while
To save the world for the next destruction
The Boy and the Rabbit
a short story
On a cold winter day, you’re called upon by the streak of sunlight brightening a sliver of lawn up to the crooked branches of a tree. From the comfort of a warm bedroom, a boy looks on. A single leaf is uplifted and carried by the wind. For a moment, blades of grass shift to the right and settle again. All is still. A rabbit appears. The rabbit slowly crosses the yard, hopping and sniffing until it rests in the sunlit streak. “The rabbit must be cold,” the boy thinks, looking down from his bedroom window. He slips on his gloves and heads outside. The boy cautiously moves closer, one pace at a time. Then he sinks down as low as he can so as to not frighten the rabbit. For a moment, he waits, admiring the stillness of its body and the quick flutter of its nose. Brown tufts of fur glisten auburn in the warm light. The rabbit’s solid black eyes produce a directionless gaze.
Suddenly, the rabbit is caught firmly between the hands of a child. The rabbit kicks out its legs. It’s body lengthening, slipping for freedom. The boy grasps tighter, trying to be gentle as he notices the structure of its ribs and spine. The rabbit shifts and kicks as the boy brings it upstairs into his bedroom. He slowly places the rabbit onto the end of his bed and lies against his pillows. The rabbit stares. The boy stares at the rabbit. There has never been an animal in his room before. Something fuzzy, warm, and alive. Two hearts beat a different sound.
The boy admires the rabbit as if he’s been waiting for it all day. He brings the rabbit closer to himself. The rabbit sniffs and hops away. The rabbit sits. The boy stares at the rabbit sitting. The rabbit hops closer to the boy's knee. The boy looks into its dark, reflective eye and it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He gently picks up the rabbit and sits it on his chest. The rabbit stays. The rabbit sniffs. The boy lightly brings his index finger and thumb to the soft fur that rests atop a rabbit’s head in between the ears. The rabbit is soft. “The rabbit is kind,” the boy thinks as the rabbit sits still on his chest. The boy loves the rabbit. He picks up the rabbit, warming his hands. He admires how the fur tickles his palms, and he can feel its heart beating. The boy squeezes. The rabbit shifts. The boy continues to squeeze. The rabbit grows firmer in the boy's grasp. The rabbit’s ribs pressed up against the boy’s hands. It feels warmer—closer. Bones and guts become tangible in the boy’s grasp. And he squeezes, squeezes until its breath slips out, and then the boy squeezes more. He squeezes until it pops—until its insides come out, and he admires it all. The boy feels content as he is the only person who knows the rabbit; the only person who has seen its insides. Red pours over his bed. He is the only person who can truly say it is all so beautiful in its entirety.
A scent of tomato soup and baked bread shifts the boy’s attention. His mother calls him down for dinner. His duvet—a bloody mess. The boy stops at the bathroom. A trace of blood is left on the cold knob of the sink. He brings his hands up to his face, and for a moment, he listens to the water hiss. The water turns red and then clear again while his mother patiently waits for the uneven stomps from the stairs. He sits at the table. The rabbit forever rests on his bed. What a repulsive sight to return to.
Blood Parade
a poem
Land of the freaks and free
Come join the parade until
We bleed in the streets
But It’s never been me
Said he and said she
Vows
prose
It would not make sense anymore - if we laid on the driveway and looked up at the stars. Your dad, our bodyguard: standing guard. He looks out and up to connect our words to the stars he once saw. I try hard to remember what we said and why it felt so big yet it’s become forgettably small. They were bright and vast. How were the stars so abundant in the polluted sky? I never see them like that anymore. Was it just that night? It wouldn’t make sense … for us to lay on the pavement, pretending the world waits for our word. The night we were no longer bound, while your dad kept us safe from the unnamed wretched things he promised exists. When we thought it was fun to construe ourselves, leaving the next ten years with no time empty, no moment without thought. There is no longer day and night nor locked doors yet it’d be weird if we rest our heads on the pavement once more. Because the stars are always there, night and day. Sometimes I wonder if it’s today. Am I there? Are you bound? Are there violet petals in your hair? Does your image still matter on this holy day? I want to tell you “no” but who am I to assume you still need those words from so long ago. I’ve actually never seen a chocolate wedding cake. I hope none of it ends up on your face. I imagine you’d think of me when I’m dead. Imagine we all did in synchronized existence. You once asked if I’d be there no matter how far or how long we will become. It was something about childhood friends. Some part of us will always be that kid so our friendship always exists? You couldn’t have possibly said all of that on our last closing shift. But let's keep pretend - like I still know your every move. Do you still hold me close to your heart? Because I do.