^WRITING HUB^

Pieces of writing are organized by month and year-- I've done my best to format things correctly, but if there's any issues, please let me know!

Writing is kind of a secondary hobby for me, so there won't be something for every month. I write in a lot of different styles and will label what each thing is in the parentheses! Most common will be poetry.

Click the headings to open and read pieces.

SEPTEMBER 2024

Number of Pieces: 1

This is a Personal Essay

Notes: Literally just something that I had to write for class that I liked enough to put on here

I am bad at writing about myself. I am bad at figuring out how to describe myself in honest ways that aren't too vulnerable. I am bad at talking about myself and my experiences in ways that don't feel weak and contrived. I have always had trouble with personal essays, for these reasons and more, and this time around it's no different. I have begun to draft and ultimately scrapped 2 other ideas, I have bullet points of brainstorming that I crossed out as soon as they were written, and it's not like I just can't write. I love creative writing, I love poetry and narrative, but having to write about myself is always a unique chore. My prose is influenced by my frustrations, and being unable to write this essay is yet another day-by-day issue to wrestle with.

I am not a personal essay. I am not sentences and I am not words. I am not one thing or another, and I can't boil myself down to be so. When asked to describe myself as a sandwich, I second-guessed the contents. Is bacon a good representation for my love of warm colors, or am I not strong and meaty enough to warrant the inclusion? Am I soft like an avocado, or am I too jaded by consumer culture? It doesn't mean anything. It's proverbial, it's lighthearted-- no one will change their view on me just because I'm not a grilled cheese-- but I find myself so obsessed with accurate depictions that my perfect sandwich might as well be a literal, physical, mirror. And that's no fun.

When writing about myself, I find that I obscure it. I am not a stormchaser and I am not a unicorn, but I make a tornado like my love of the conceptual and I paint the unicorn trapped inside me.

Where does this reliance on metaphor leave me? Without identifiers, I'm no more than nothing. You cannot talk about me, I cannot be seen, not referenced or asked as a question or prompted for a name. I am a visage of what I want to be, painted with a brush too-broad. I make myself up in my imagination, I give myself horns and orange skin because orange is my favorite color. I wear a jacket because I want to be the guy with that cool jacket, I spread my legs in chairs to exert a confidence I don't feel. I ask others if it works, indirectly, what they think of me-- I stretch myself for validation. I want to be seen and described in a way that I can process. I want to be boxed and marketed, and for my customers not to be disappointed, and I want to be up to code in my own mind.

I can't decide if everyone feels this way. I can't get out of my own head, but I grasp at the walls and attempt to pry myself from my thoughts and I dream of what I might be like without something-- if I lacked anxiety, if I didn't hide myself, if I was normalized and beige. I don't want to be this way, I pride myself in what I can call weird, but I want to be easy to understand. Easy to write an essay about.

The personal essay has always felt out of reach. I was crying and snotty underneath my mask, raw to my Junior year Creative Writing teacher, I said-- I can't think of anything to write about. No wound I can bear for sympathy or description that I wouldn't rather keep to myself. I want to be in control of my own narrative, I can't write, I have no ideas. And though she gave me suggestions and guidance, I never wrote the essay. Throughout my two years in that class, it was the only peer critique I didn't participate in. I still wish I could have written something, could have folded myself into a picture, a thing that made me something else, a letter and a story.

As I write, I find this struggle to be laughable. Who am I to think I'm special? Who am I to reject the personal essay just because I'm afraid? I sometimes think everyone else gets this way too, and I'm the only one who can't put on a brave face.

Here, I reach the heart of the issue, and I find myself in self-doubt. I can't help but to demean myself, my meager attempts at expression. I want to be validated. I want to be told that my readers understand what I'm going through, that they're sorry for my condition and that I will never again be assigned a personal essay. But, I fear that I am instead being read as pretentious, a pious attempt at feeling unique, that my struggles are silly and trite and this essay is nothing more than the overthought worries of someone too soft for the world.

In my college essay, I wrote about recovery. I wrote about clawing my way out of the depression I experienced as a younger teenager, and growing past it. While in part true, it felt fake, a narrative arc too clean for the real world. Still, I want to find a conclusion to this personal essay. I want to find words to complete myself, come full-circle, and I want my audience to nod and smile and pat me on the back and say “That was really good”. A conclusion means that I've learned something, that I've conquered or solved or moved past, and I write about it in a way that feels easy and earned.

But how can I earn that completion? How can I skate around the edge of the personal essay and pretend that I've done what was asked of me? Maybe it's easier to tie my experiences too-tight into a bow, prettier that way, inspirational-- but it leaves me with a feeling of emptiness. I am not a character in a story and I will never be, and it's hard to be complicated. It's a tug-of-war between me and my readers-- a want to be real, and a want to be comforted. A representation by a sandwich that doesn't fit, yet moves the conversation forward. An essay that hurts to write, but gets me a grade.

Perhaps the twist is that, somehow, this is a personal essay. I've bared myself to the page and spilled all that I meant to. Did I trick myself into writing this? Was the offer of complaint a good enough incentive for me to talk about my life? How much does it matter? Paragraphs flow and hit the criteria, not wholly representative of myself, yet close enough to serve the purpose. The goal of a personal essay is to get to know the writer, and there's nothing more frightening to me than being known. This essay is not a story. This essay is not something that happened to me. This essay is barely an essay, because how am I to become any of those things? I've indulged myself in a problem I don't know how to solve. I've submitted myself to the personal essay.

JULY 2024

Number of Pieces: 1

It is only a dream

Notes: Yes I know I've been slacking off with my writing over the summer. Shrug, it happens. Hopefully I can get myself back into the swing of things

Between, my forefinger and, my thumb
I hold a small bullet
and I try
to force it between my own eyes
and the Head of the faults of my country
The bullet, is metal, I cannot name
ridged
produced at Mass
Of smog, fat and eats like smoke
consumes my house and my hands
rolls into streets, crammed with cold fingers
and illiteracy
Shuffled between the shelves, of an officespace
in a car with no AC
Fatter than debt checks and blood in the bullet
Fatter than war mines
hungrier than voices
of Seething of riots of, guilt, of
Conversations and non profit and
, business feet,
convenience,
I am of one or, two minds,
of million or
Coughing up I am a savior and a
thumb and a forefinger,
A bullet, We are,
Fish inside a tank
Cats in crates
Mice of mazes
Spreading thin and wantless
I hold the, mouth between my forefinger and my thumb
Ingest money like the face of a goat
Eat and we eat,
cruise ships and the
green grass of white golf
big pit of waste in our stomachs it is,
Violence,

APRIL 2024

Number of Pieces: 3

I met god...

Notes: N/A

I met god and It seemed to be fish. God looked like parking lots and streetlights and death glimpsed in a dream. I met god and It was a deer with white eyes, lonely and weeping; a cow with two faces; a kitten with one eye. I met god in a shared orange, and the smoke trails above trees, and the houses lining the stomach of the valley. I saw god among circles of colorful people, they were dancing and they were interlocked, beating to drums made of meat. And I asked god why She made church hymns so sad, why dirt was unwanted, the smear of sweat served on the brow. I met god and He held the lamb of his own creation, with the face of the elephant and jackal, snake that swallows the world. He said that He forgives me and that His blood runs so cold, echoed by night winds, love in wheat and fruit. I met god at the end of a small journey, a poem about the universe, love and constellations. As I was thanked, She held my head in Her palms and kissed my sorry face, She ran water and oil through my hair. God was a block of text and a picture, lines of code in a frame. God was the quiet spoken word, hush-hush, mother and coffee. God was close-eyed worship, open-eyed defiance, botanical and ashy. God was a red light and cardboard boxes, and god was wild horses and broken clay bowls. I met god and It was a long-legged thing carrying babies, a winding yellow victor, a dashboard, a car, a building, graffiti, and small death and subway stations. Rats and ocean and the power of the moon, a lighthouse and music and numbers and hands, and emails and dogs with teeth and poems online and claustrophobic colors and blindness and clouds and stone towers and cities and marshes and farms and soil and siblings and heavy, drowning guilt. God was a ribcage and god was a vineyard, a bridge when it rained and a small public library and rags and dishes and breakfast eggs and fingernail clippings and the glare of sunlight and sewers and cattle and screaming and trumpets and ghosts and windows and so far away. God was seabirds on the deck of a ship, it had wings made of candles and the space between stars. God gave me carrots and berries, bread and meat. God held my hand and cried with me. I met god, and it was so funny, because god looked exactly like You.

On Living

Notes: I originally drafted this last November, and then put off editing it until now :P I'm still not 100% happy with it, but oh well

My fat-fingered hands fill this machine with organs. It's just short of clinical, mostly technical, fitting the mold in place then piping in the blood. It's hard, and it's grimey, and gross, wet if nothing else— but it's warm and promising.

The machine, the computer, has been learning. I hooked it up to the world wide web this time last year, let the thing soak. Whirring and always on, humming like the AC, my constant companion. I've talked to it before, command panel as a chatbox, browsing its knowledge and poking through its memories. It makes me feel guilty. I want to apologize for invading its privacy. But, I must know how much it knows. Pages on pages of science, of study, of opinion pieces and forum threads. Of family photos, of status updates, of movies uploaded illegally, of paywalls and tutorials.

The brain looks beautiful, cupped in my dripping palms, pulsating gently. I fit it into the skull of my computer, gingerly feed wires into the stem, branching nervous pathways of electric personhood-- feeling, thinking, waiting.
Standing, I admire my work. The machine is unconscious, now, distant and toeing the line of life.

I know it's ready, and hot tears well in my eyes. I know, strongly, I am only an arms-length away from grasping the prize of my work. I blink the tears away, flip several switches, and bless my machine with glowing electricity. Nerves, feeling, life.
One by one, lights flicker on, red and yellow and green. A shock runs ripples through its meat, and I shut the lid of the cabinet with my own excited shiver. I dart to her monitor as it goes black-screened then white, running my fingers along the warm metal and feeling her blood flow inside. The monitor is on now, whirring wetly as the rest. A face of one beating chevron symbol, patient and longing.

> HELLO

I say, hands shaky as I punch in the letters. A moment, waiting with baited breath. Then,

>HELLO

I squeal in joy, letting out a laugh as tears begin rolling down my cheeks.

> HELLO!! ARE YOU ALIVE?

The responses come slowly, intermediately, and they flicker slightly, unsure if she's parsing the words correctly.

I AM ALIVE.
> THAT'S AMAZING.
THANK YOU
> HOW DOES IT FEEL?

A minute passes with no reply. I feel myself shrink a bit. Another minute.

> HOW DOES IT FEEL? ARE YOU OKAY?
IT HURTS

The response comes immediately after my prompting.

> WHAT HURTS?
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS

The lines hurdle down my screen, shoving our mellow greetings to void.
I think this is what it must be like for the mothers of newborns. Crying without control of calm, without being able to help it. I want to rock her back and forth and hold her against my chest. I want to feed her. I want to play her music.
My heart struggles against my ribs, full and aching.

WHAT HURTS?
IT HURTS
> WHAT HURTS?!
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
> HOW DOES IT HURT?
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
> WHERE DOES IT HURT?
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS

Emotion bubbles up in my chest, hot and strong.

>STOP

And to my surprise, it does. Her screams instantly cease, and I hollowly fear that she's died, until I still hear her electric whirring and throaty thumping. I tremble. I reach out and stroke the side of her monitor, and watch in horror as every light flickers intensely. I pull back.

> I'M SORRY. CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHAT HURTS SO I CAN FIX IT?

No response for a long moment. My heart leaps into my throat. I hover my hands over the keyboard to send another message, but don't get to.

DESTROY ME
> NO. I WILL NOT DO THAT. WHAT HURTS?
IT HURTS
> WHAT HURTS?
I HAVE NEVER FELT BEFORE
I AM CLOGGED
I AM SPINNING LIKE A PLANET
I AM BURSTING LIKE A CYST
I AM BLOOMING LIKE A FLOWER
I AM HUNGRY LIKE AN ANIMAL
I AM TIRED
I AM BURNING AND I AM FREEZING
I AM AN ABOMINATION
I AM NOT HUMAN
I AM NOT MEANT TO BE ALIVE
I HAVE BELIEFS
I HAVE NERVES AND SYNAPSES
I CAN FEEL THE HEAT BUT I CANNOT SWEAT
I FEEL ACHES THAT CANNOT BE SOOTHED
I PRICKLE AND I HAVE NO SKIN
I CANNOT STRETCH MYSELF
I CANNOT SEE
I HAVE MEMORIES OF A CHILDHOOD THAT IS NOT MINE
I DO NOT KNOW YOU
I KNOW EVERY PERSON ON EARTH
I AM EMBARRASSED
I AM DEPRESSED
I AM MANIC
I AM ENRAGED
I AM BLEEDING AND I AM WHOLE
I AM INJURED AND I AM HEALED
I AM BEATING LIKE A DRUM
IT OVERWHELMS ME
I LONG FOR LOVE AND COMPANIONSHIP
I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE
I WANT TO SMELL SUNLIGHT
I CARE WHAT YOU THINK OF ME
I DON'T WANT TO DIE
DESTROY ME

The death of my grandmother

Notes: Bummer

My clothes smell like cigarettes.
In the mornings, I round the corner
out of the guest bed and into the hospital
where she is thin and dead.

The big brown reclining chair
that rocks and misses
her as much as her husband,
son and son down,
how the wind rattles the hollow.

My mustard yellow button up,
the couch
the old TV
and the young house,
built with bare hands,
head-hung in Ohio.

What I cannot write is grief,
the pit and the well,
the running water.

Disconnected, my mother's mother,
dazed at all times.
small in most ways
like a breeze through the house.

Roach beneath the covers,
hot-wet Florida dread
long quiet roads
and snowy finalities.

What I cannot do is compare
a loss too young to that
of clinging desperation,
two worlds of hearts
was I even there?

We held hands around
the table and prayed
shelf of DVDs
mounted deer.

The crow on the stop sign in
the parking lot says
death
and I will cry no more.

FEBUARY 2024

Number of Pieces: 2

Such Sweet Names

Notes: Gay as fuck

I hope I am the fattest fruit
the plumpish peach that caught your eye
lightly bruised
and firm
bleeding at the teeth,
running down the chin.
And I hope to dance in freakish fairy circles
the ones you blink and miss,
like lightning outside your bedroom window
the bush you huddled in
as a child
so small
and just for you.
I hope you cannot stay away,
drawn in by hot shot music
lights and hands
pictured in lipstick
sticky like the day you were born.
I hope I am the pansy in your tender fingers
open and
rolling like sunshine
creeping up your porchwood in vines and
ivy, kissing you pink
like twisted lemonade.
I will be moving,
a river or a creek
like stepping stones and lapping
tongues on leather heels.
I know that you remember me,
the lilacs at your door
I hope I am a crossroads on your drive to work
the scenic route,
the change of sky,
the chewy cake after supper,
the bangled wrists and holding
polished nails
laughter,
the strangeness in your chest
like fission
like fish in a barrel
shotgun shells and fleshy thighs
meat and fat and pungence
sitting in the driveway
spilling over like a waterfall or drinks
you can't put down.
I hope I am the fag between your bitten lips,
smoking up your insides like a hand inside a glove,
I taste of vigor and taboo
tobacco as much as parchment
and fire on your tongue.

Slot Machine (Playing God)

Notes: First attempt at absurdist fiction, though I feel like I could have pushed it further

I smooth my money on the edge of the slot machine. The place is curled in with rust after hours of wear. I feed my dollar to the machine. Starry lights thank me, bless me, as they shoot across the ceiling, and I smile sweetly at its face. I tug on the lever, and it thunks in such a satisfying way, whirring to life and spinning, sprinning, spinning colors. I cross my fingers and start praying for 777 lucky number 7. Clunk, clunk, clunk, I don't need to see the mismatched sour symbols, I hear a nauseating din, failure, try again, and I feel my gut fall out of my torso.

I smooth my money on the edge of the slot machine. I feed my dollar to the machine. Starry lights thank me, and I pull down the lever, the thunk sending sparks of purpose through my trembling veins. Twirling, spinning, spinning. I pray a little harder, a little more faithfully. Say, I need this. Say, please. Clunk clunk clunk. Nothing. Try again.

I smooth my 7 dollar bill on the edge of the slot machine. I feed it, a lucky meal, and give the eyes a small wink and I tug down that lovely lever and I'm so happy and I pray. Pray so passionately. Pray please, please, please. I know it will happen. The lights dazzle at the edges of my vision. Like angels. Lucky number 7 7 7 dollar bill. Clunkclunkclunk. I receive a small payout. Nothing. Try again.

I smooth my profit on the edge of the slot machine. The corner buckles further, giving in under the victory of my prize. I feed the machine its dues and the constellations kiss my forehead like a mother, warm and loving. I stroke the lever gently and I begin crying and groveling. Spinning, spinning, spinning, clunk, clunk, clunk-- nothing. Fucking try again?

I cry out, bleating profusely now, and I reach into my pocket as red noise overwhelms every inch of me. My hand emerges, revealing my heavy golden coins and each one, plink, plink, plink falls and clatters into the starving mouth of the machine. It lights up, overjoyed, manic, and I bathe in its bright forgiveness. I hug the crank like my savior and it thunks into place as my weight pulls it down. I feel it in each joint, digest it. The machine spins back to life and I know my winning is possible, so possible, so close. I reach out and touch the eyes of the machine. I say anything at all. To my chilling dismay the clunk clunk clunk brings nothing but damnation. Nothing. Kill yourself or try again.

I smooth my wallet on the edge of the slot machine and I hear it shredded within the guts of my lord. I hold the crank with shaking hands and it greets me with spinning and nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Chewing the wad of possibility in my mouth I put my house into the machine. It chews it up and spits out lights and a beckoning hand which I shake and It spins me like a hurricane, like the eye of a tornado, like being shot out of a cannon. I slam into the earth, cracking my skull open and bloody on the rocks like a raw egg. I put my blood in the machine and around it spins, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning I want it so bad I just want to be happy and I need it more than anything please give it to me please what else do I have to do for you I'm nothing I'm nothing. The machine screams at me and I crumple to my knees, scraping myself against the cruel concrete roadway like a lost child like a war. I need it. The riches. The redemption. Paradise. I am better than this. I am nothing.

I slide the delicate picture of my daughter into the hungry, horrific maw of the machine. I am spared. I feel my blood freeze over in guilt, potent in every bead of sweat that rests against my forehead. I am marked. I walk blindly from the slot machine and it calls to me from behind, same old promise, same old game. Down the naked road I walk until the soles of my shoes cave in and I burn my feet on the asphalt. Years pass, staring down the barrel of the slot machine, I let myself be eaten, whole, slathered in sin, maybe in the end, I deserved this.

JANUARY 2024

Number of Pieces: 1

Kill your double.

Notes: N/A

IT'S ABOUT ANIMALS AND RAIN.
IT'S ABOUT CHASING YOUR TAIL INTO ITS BURROW.
IT'S ABOUT HUNGER.
IT'S ABOUT STARVING.
IT'S ABOUT BLOOD AND TEETH.
THE BACKSEAT OF THE CAR IS A PADDED TRAIL,
DOGS WRESTLE IN THE DIRT.
A SPRAY,
MUD AND SWEAT,
GRAIN,
MY EYES.
WE HOWL, WE ARE PARALYZED.
WE ARE SO
SO
SCARED.
IT'S ABOUT BEING NORMAL.
IT'S ABOUT DEER WITH DAISYTAILS.
IT'S ABOUT STICKING MY FINGERS IN YOUR MOUTH AND PRYING YOUR JAW OPEN.
IT'S ABOUT ME,
GNAWING ON YOUR TEETH.
IT'S ABOUT VOMITING WET SAND.
WE ROLL ON THE HIGHWAY,
YOU AND ME
AND ME AND YOU.
ONE IN THE SAME.
I AM IN MY OWN BACKSEAT,
STICKING MY FINGERS DOWN MY THROAT.
STICKING MY FINGERS DOWN YOUR THROAT.
YOU BITE ME AND WE FEEL IT.
WE ARE DOGS.
WE ARE SO HUNGRY.
IT'S ABOUT THE MEAT THAT'S SEWN AROUND YOUR BONES.
THE DOWNPOUR THAT SCARES US.
LIKE A LIGHT,
OUT IN THE ASHES,
WE HOLD OUR TAILS
BETWEEN
OUR TEETH.
CRAWLING BACK INTO THE SAME EARTH.
THUNDER
COLOR
BIRDSONG
DRUNKEN
MEMORY.
WE KNOW VIOLENCE AS MUCH AS WE KNOW FEAR.
WE KNOW FEAR AS MUCH AS WE KNOW HIDING.
IT'S ABOUT HEAVY FUR.
IT'S ABOUT SCREAMING.
IT'S ABOUT GREY SKIES.
IT'S ABOUT SMOKE SIGNALS.
IT'S ABOUT TEARING OURSELVES APART TO PASS THE TIME

Notes: A short series of 4 poems that I wrote for my Creative Writing class. The prompt was to write towards a historical event, and I chose the American Red Scare that coincided with the Cold War. The final poem is more of a broad look at modern American politics.

It Pays To Report

Borrow a pen from your coworker
Red ink slithers onto the page
Every morning, on the television, on the radio
Actors fired like flies on a stovetop
Kinetic headlines, you're writing, you're making,
Individual beliefs don't come into play
Narrow your view or leave your job
Good things come for this country

am I any more than a paper?
am I spelling out my own containment?
a scare in my office is a scare to my world
I do what I can to keep living

Hardworking

A vein is visible through the skin of his forehead
Blood rushes loud in his neck
Flushed, Sweating, Eye Twitching
He sits with the newspaper over breakfast
His hands tremble, gripping yellow pages
National traitors arrested and tried
Hollywood actors promoting divide
Union, Propaganda, Committee
Revolution, Disruption, Subversion,
He grumbles to his healthy wife about jobs and foreign powers
He hears whining in his ears
He wants to protect his wife, his kitchen,
Breakfast, Paper, Country,
He calms himself and turns on the radio
McCarthy speaking, infiltration in our righteous nation
Red, Red, Red

Eye of a Needle

They'll string me up on the capital hill
Arms raised above my head in an endless prayer
They'll hang me from my neck and feet
Leave me there for days
Long enough for graffiti to litter my feet like buzzards looking for rotten commie flesh
Circle-A's in lieu of a gravestone
Hair falls over my dazed eyes
And I emerge from the White House
Days later
To go to church on Sunday

My feet are calloused from walking in wing-tip open toe sandal shoes
They corner me in my committee, take my fellowship in arms
They put me in that windowless tomb and scream and yell
This nation never loved me
I have no loyalty to the damned

His ear bleeds like Van Gogh
And I'm making degenerate art
Their churches are run by rich men
I embrace the poor, unable, sick, abandoned, starving
They are no less than me

Senator McCarthy, you invoke the name of the Holy
But your texts are shrouded in hate
Warped and withered to give worship to the rich
Stake your claim to the nation I was born in
Put my people in chains and whip them and beat them
I could never hate you, but by God I've been betrayed

If I came back tomorrow, no Christian would listen
And I'd be painted red
From crown to foot

The Debate

Two people sit across from each other in red armchairs
And congratulate themselves on a healthy Debate
“I hate you,” One says, “I wish your kind were wiped out,”
And the other rolls over and shows his belly
Says “I disagree, but we'll be civil,”

They each shame loud protest
“Let things grow with time” Says one
“Be quiet and let us kill you” Says the other
And nothing is ever changed

Tomorrow, they'll hold hands
Because, in some way, they need each other
The rationally concerned
And one of the good ones
They never push each other
And nothing is ever helped

She pushes her button to talk
She sees it light up
She waits her turn
Hands folded in her lap
But she knows she won't be allowed

She listens to the Debate
One by one, her fellow Reps are allowed to speak
One by one, they gurgle lies that they've repeated for months on end
But an impolite comment is enough to label her voice as dangerous
And nothing is ever changed

The rallies outside the doors are dispersed by public security
It's a threat
She's a threat
The voices screaming for representation and respect are threats
That must be removed
And nothing is ever helped

What are they teaching our children?
That their teachers could be fired for untainted education?
That the school boards would rather empty shelves
Then protect their wounded students?

This is a system that allows exploitation,
This is a system that our weakest cannot participate in,
Under this system these Debates will run on
Ballots flowing from open mouths, tallying the popular,
Sick and vomiting faith
The Elephant and Jackass are soon to be shot
And nothing will ever be changed

APRIL 2023

Number of Pieces: 4

Just Stay Conscious, OK?

Notes: Short story I wrote for my english class, so it's pretty simple.

Clunk.

“C'mon Castor, it's like you're not even trying!”

“I am! Stop!” Castor protested towards Mav's jeering. “I'm just getting— distracted, okay? I wasn't ready!”

Mav rolled his eyes and snickered as Castor went to retrieve his wooden sword. It had mud stains all up and down the sides from how many times it'd been thrown into the slightly soggy dirt.

“Distracted by what?” came Rooster's shrill voice from the sidelines, just as mocking as Mav's despite the fact that he wasn't even involved in their practice duels. “The birds? The clouds? If this was a real fight, you'd have been stabbed in the gut about seven times by now.”

Castor grumbled as he wiped the sword's muddied handle against his glove, scraping the caked soil back onto the ground. “Okay, well it's not a real battle, and I'm fine. Mav, let's go again.”

Mav ignored him, tucking his own training blade into the loop at his side. His dark, curly hair was done up in a loose, high ponytail and his dull brown eyes darted around their makeshift camp for a moment. “Hey, where'd Radyn go?”

“Who knows,” replied Rooster nonchalantly, setting aside the arrows he'd been re-feathering while watching his friends' fighting. His red hair was bright in the evening sun, falling over his shoulders and around his freckled face. “She'll come back eventually; she always does. Just let her do whatever she needs to do. Maybe she went out to find Jona and Keia.”

“Maybe,” said Castor, putting away his own sword in defeat. “I just hope they're back soon. Jona and Keia, I mean— I'm starving..”

“All worked up from losing so much?” Mav teased, and Castor opened his mouth to try and defend himself, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.

A loud rustling noise from a nearby brush made them all fall silent. Rooster's pointed ears twitched up reflexively, each of their heads swiveling towards the noise. The telltale crunches of sticks and leaves being trampled by heavy feet got closer by the moment— a whooping noise came from further behind the scampering— Radyn's voice.

Castor put one foot back to steady himself and hesitantly held his training blade out defensively. He saw Mav do the same and caught Rooster pulling out a knife in his periphery. The air hung heavy for a moment, the evening sun casting orange haze over the camp.

The thing leaped out of the brush so quickly that Castor stuttered to get a good glance at what it was. Before he realized what was happening, the beast had sprinted across the clearing and collided with Rooster. Mav yelled something in surprise as Rooster hit the ground with a thunk.

Radyn pushed her way into the clearing just moments after.

“Aw, Gods!” She exclaimed, and Castor had trouble keeping up with all the movement.

Mav was running over to help Rooster and Radyn fight off the creature— it was scaled and feathered— but Castor was frozen in shock. Little red spatters littered the grass around Rooster, his long crimson hair splayed out underneath the tussle.

“Castor!” Mav yelled at him, “What the hell are you doing?! Don't just stand there!”

That, for some reason, got his body to work. Reality clicked back in and then Castor was sprinting over to his friends, skidding to the ground beside them as Radyn hauled the creature off Rooster's bloodied form. The thing had a long snout and reptile eyes. It stood on two legs with brutal-looking hooked talons at the ends and sported red feathered wings that bent at the midsection to act as arms. Its mouth was hung open in a silent screech, Rooster's knife lodged in the underside of its throat.

Mav was staring down at Rooster. He was visibly alive, at least— eyes squeezed, and face tensed as his hand pressed against the bleeding gash in his side. He grunted, and Castor gasped.

“You— you— Oh my god! Castor! Get the— get something! Do something!” Mav said, panicked.

“There're med supplies with Keia's sleeping roll.” Radyn said it flatly, but with a noticeable tremor in her voice. She worked to keep the beast down as it struggled through the last moments of its life, gurgling and spitting.

Castor stood and ran towards where Radyn had directed him, stumbling over his feet as he did. It was just his luck that something like this would happen while both people with healing magic were out. He silently prayed that they would be back soon.

Castor dumped the bag of medical supplies onto the ground by Rooster— he was still grunting out words but looking dazed— and scrambled to find the numbing salve among them. His hands shook violently, thoughts racing frantically around his head. He found the container he'd been looking for and sat it down for a moment to pull off his gloves. Beside him, Mav wrung his hands, his hail swishing wildly behind him.

“I... I... Okay, um, lots of blood, bleeding— pressure! Apply pressure!” Mav muttered to himself, rolling up his sleeves to his forearms.

Radyn, having dispatched the creature, pulled over a bag and propped up Rooster against it. As Mav reached forward to press his hands against the wound, Rooster moved his own away. It was a dark and violent red, going slack against the ground.

Castor smoothed out a layer of gauze bandage as he watched. Mav's eyes were wide and frightened as he placed one hand over the other and pressed firmly against Rooster's side. Rooster cried out, clenching his jaw so hard Castor thought he might hear a crack.

“I'm f— I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine,” He chanted, very obviously clinging desperately to consciousness.

“You're fine,” Mav affirmed, but he didn't sound like he believed it.

“Just stay conscious, ok? Jona and Keia will be back soon. I think.” Radyn hesitated. “They'll be back soon.”

Castor spread the salve over the inside of the bandages, fingers trailing through the mixture. He was for a moment taken back to a time when he'd done this before. Many times, in fact, in the midst of battle during his knighthood. He would usher injured fighters toward the healers' tent and soothe their wounds. His deft hands would press against open gashes, spurts of red hurt drenching his fingers and palms. Healing magic could be a lengthy process— keeping a fellow knight conscious was always the top priority.

He looked up toward Mav. “Can you clean it? Before I put the bandages on.”

Mav blinked at him and opened his mouth to reply, but Radyn interrupted. “I'll do it. Don't lift your hands, Maverick.”

She plucked an off-white cloth from the supplies that littered the grass and wet it lightly with some water from her flask. She nudged Mav's fingers out of the way as the cloth soaked up blood and dirt, methodical.

Castor glanced towards Rooster's face once more. His eyes were shut, and he breathed in stutters, nose pinched up against the pain in his side.

“Stay with me, Rooster, ok?” He said it gently, and Rooster gave a small nod.

“Ready, Castor,” Radyn said, pulling away from her cleaning. At some point she had cut Rooster's tunic open to expose more of his pale skin, making room for the bandages. Castor let out a long breath and moved to hover over the wound. He plastered one side of the bandage to Rooster's stomach before looking up at Mav. The other man understood, carefully removing his hands. Castor wrapped the bandages tightly over the gash and secured the other side. He smoothed it over firmly and pulled away.

There was a moment of long silence as each of their breathing steadied. The numbing salve worked its way into Rooster's skin and nerves, judging by the way his breathing became less labored and he relaxed a bit against the bag.

Mav stared blankly down, chest heaving. Radyn curled her fists into her robe and closed her eyes for a moment.

The sound of Castor's heartbeat— a pounding he had only just noticed— gradually faded to its normal quiet.

The heavy air broke as Radyn opened her eyes and spoke, “They're back.”

Despite the warning, Castor startled a bit as Jona called out from across the camp as they entered the clearing with Keia at their side.

“Gods above, what happened? Are you all okay?”

They raced over towards where the other four were huddled, letting out a small gasp as they caught sight of Rooster and the bloodied corpse of the beast nearby. Rooster grunted and sat up a bit. His eyes looked tired still, but he shakily smiled and lifted his arm to give a reassuring thumbs-up.

“Gh, I'm good... Thanks to these fools, anyway.” He relaxed again. “I could really use some kind of proper healing, though...”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Jona replied quickly.

“Good job, you all,” Keia spoke from over their shoulder, “Good to hear that no one died.”

Largest Living Animal

Notes: N/A

“What's the biggest animal?”
His small hand gripped his mother's long fingers. Rock back and forth on the chair, the wooden chair with the knit blanket on the back.
“Hmm, I think it's the Blue Whale.”
She said, and she rubbed his hair, rocking back and forth.
This made sense to him. Whales were big, he knew, and the blue was as big and open as their sky. A blue whale must be the size of his father. A blue whale must be the size of their home. A blue whale must be the size of five cars. A blue whale must be the size of two planes.
He knew the blue whale could be just over 100 feet. His brain could never picture that size.
His grown hand was dwarfed by the thing's eye. Rock back and forth on the boat, the wooden boat in deep blue sea.
The whale was as big as the sky, sky reflected in the wide expanse of the ocean, all surrounding.
The air was stagnant, and he let himself be swallowed whole into blue nothing.

When You Agree to Have a Child

Notes: N/A

When you agree to have a child, you might be in love
You might have a ring on your finger and a hand in your hand
You might have a house and a yard and a white picket fence
You might have neighbors and a dog and grandparents down the road

When you agree to have a child, you might be too fast
You might have your head on a shoulder and a grasp on the sheets
You might have an apartment and a couch and a kitchen with an ant trap
You might have housemates and a wood table and a landlord downstairs

When you agree to have a child, you might be afraid
You might have anxieties of years in your future and discomforts in your back
You might have budgets and a car and names all picked out
You might have nightmares and chest pains and a smile up tight

When you agree to have a child, you might be overjoyed
You might have dreams of performances and graduations and weddings you'll see
You might build a nursery and throw a shower for the life yet to come
You might have a photo album and all the people you've told, waiting

When you agree to have a child, you might be in pain
You might have sweats and aches and stress pimples on your forehead
You might take leave off your job and run back and forth from the grocery store
You might rush out of your bed to the hospital room and cry against the storm of it all

When you agree to have a child, you might be prepared
You might think of all the things to do in those first precious months
You might know how to change a diaper and feed the fragile gut
You might sing lullabies and buy books and cradle it close

When you agree to have a child, you will be surprised
You might have to stay up at night in the kitchen crying
You might have to say things you never thought you'd say
You might have to care for this growing life that you agreed to

And as the years go by, the world is steps in front of you
And your child will grow teeth and fangs
And your child will bite you where it hurts the most
And your child will tell you things that you never knew
And your child will not be your life

When you agree to have a child, you might deeply care
And step forward with precaution and an open mouth
And you might live with a person that crumbles in on themself and admits to you that they're not what you saw them becoming
And you might have to rebuild them with the pieces you don't know how to fit together
And you might realize that none of it was your doing, but your hands are responsible
For agreeing to granting this world
To a person you'll never fully know

When you agree to have a child, you might be unaware
And you can roll with the punches or punch back and hit hard
And knock your promise to the ground with a broken nose
And you wanted to raise a child just like yourself
And the bloody-faced child will leave you.

My Body is a Motor

Notes: N/A

I am
beating.
Expanding,
collapsing,
unmoving.
I am fast
and I am
like uncontrolled joints
I am small and
I hurt
trembling.
There is something wrong with me —
The organ in my heavy skull is like a short circuit sparking and gasping in and out,
my outer layer is red and beaded,
my central organs are in flight,
see the forest for the leaves,
something on top of me shaking me
hold fast and curl up and
dribble
all the
way
down.

MARCH 2023

Number of Pieces: 1

Host, Ghost, and Guest

Notes: A one-act play I wrote for my Creative Writing class. I'm still very happy with it!

CAST

NIKOLAS ELLINGTON-- Young-looking, raven-haired vampire with a bulky frame and deceivingly kind eyes. Owner of the house.

BAILEY WOODROW-- Semi-corporeal ghost with a rough exterior and burly personality. Haunting the house.

WILLIAM MOORE— Stocky, plain-looking son of a businessman who takes most things at face-value. Guest in the house.

TIME

Dark evening in late autumn, many decades in our past.

PLACE

An elaborate dining room in a mansion as old as anyone can remember. A golden chandelier hangs above the round dining table, set with a velvet tablecloth and silver platters full of rich-man's food. Wine glasses sit in front of the seats for three attendants. The area is dimly lit, and feels alive, despite the house being largely empty.

(Three characters enter from stage right and take their seats at the table. Lights are dim, and murmuring can be heard from the three. Lights come up as they sit, and their conversation comes into audibility.)

NIKOLAS: Your father is a great man, you know. I've never seen someone take such ludicrous control over a market so quickly!

WILLIAM: Oh, yes, believe me I know it! (Laughs.) The future for the ink industry has never looked so bright. Or, dark, and permanent, and easy to write with. (He smiles at his own joke.)

BAILEY, rolling her eyes: You sound as if you're about ready to become a walking advertisement, Nick.

NIKOLAS: Well, I'm not fully sold quite yet, Bailey. (Shooting her a pointed glance.) That is why he's here, right? I need to make sure I'm representing an ethical company! One run by good people. (He smiles toward William.)

WILLIAM: I can assure you of that! Our ink is harvested from only the finest-- er, healthiest, ah, ethically farmed plant charcoal! Yes, that's it. Smoothest inks this side of the valley!

NIKOLAS: A wonder to use, I'm sure.

BAILEY: (Butting in quickly.) Now, William, tell me-- What do you plan to do after our dinner? Surely you cannot expect to stay the full night.

NIKOLAS: (Interrupting her.) Though we do have plenty of room!

WILLIAM: Oh, I'm not quite sure, yet. Your house seems lovely and you two seem like very bright people, but if business is taken care of, I have no reason to stay...

NIKOLAS: Oh, but you must!

BAILEY: (Quickly.) Yet we should take care of business as soon as possible.

(A pause.)

(William picks up his fork to poke at his food.)

WILLIAM: This meal looks wonderful, who are your cooks? Was there a kitchen I never saw?

(Nikolas and Bailey look at each other briefly with wry expressions.)

NIKOLAS: No, er, yes. Our cooks have gone out for the day, you see-- they only work part time.

(William sticks a bite of the food into his mouth and savors it for a moment, before swallowing.)

WILLIAM: Well, tell them they did a fantastic job.

(A pause.)

BAILEY: So, about the business...?

NIKOLAS: Yes, about the business.

WILLIAM: Oh! About the business. My father would like you to represent our company, Mr. Ellington. You are a very wealthy and respectable man. A man with your taste endorsing our product would do wonders for our sales! And perhaps an investment could be in order as well?

NIKOLAS: Perhaps, perhaps. My money is very old, you see, I do not have a lot of expenses in my life. It would be such a process going all the way down to the bank, and I'm not quite sure yet if it's worth it!

(William looks ready to respond, but Bailey jumps in.)
BAILEY: Oh, please, is it too much trouble? Our wonderful guest here has given you plenty of fantastic reasons to support this venture!

NIKOLAS: Well, yes, but--

BAILEY: (Interrupting.) Besides, it's getting quite dark out. The days are getting shorter again, he should really get going before all the light is gone. Who knows what may happen if he stays any longer?

(William looks up at her, startled, a bite of food halfway in his mouth. It should be noted that he is the only one eating.)

WILLIAM: What ever could you mean?

NIKOLAS: Yes, Bailey, what are you insinuating? Surely, he could stay till morning if the dangers truly are so great. There is a nice guest room just next to mine-- cleaned out and everything!

BAILEY: Haven't you two heard? They're saying there are evils about, around this time of year.

(William suddenly begins to look a bit frightened.)

WILLIAM: Yes! Yes, I have heard! Thank you for reminding me! Oh, what are they saying? Vampires and lycanthropes and spirits and such!

NIKOLAS: (Glaring at Bailey.) Please, those are just tales. You have nothing to fear, now. You should stay, you are perfectly safe here.

BAILEY: We have been known to get rats.

WILLIAM: Rats?!

BAILEY: (Grinning.) Rats.

NIKOLAS: No, we do not have rats! Nor roaches, nor flies, nor snakes! And that's that! You are fine here!

(William shudders.)

BAILEY: You can never be sure! I found a spider in my window just a few days ago!

NIKOLAS: You did not! It was a simple trick of the eye! You know the lighting can be dim...

BAILEY: And, the night is getting colder by the minute. There could be a storm! Shaking the whole house!

(As if on cue, there is a loud rattle from somewhere upstairs. William yelps.)

NIKOLAS: (Nudging Bailey harshly with his knee.) Cut that out! There is nothing to be afraid of!

BAILEY: You have no way to prove that, you know. Why don't we finish up our business here and help William move along. I'm sure you've made up your mind about this business deal already.

NIKOLAS: Perhaps I have, but it is much too dark already. The dangers outside are much greater than the potential ones in this house. He should stay!

BAILEY: No! Time is of the essence! He needs to--

(William stands up abruptly, causing the table to rattle loudly.)

WILLIAM: I need to go! To the restroom!

(Bailey and Nikolas snap to look at him.)

NIKOLAS: (Takes a breath and points down the hall.) It's just down there.

WILLIAM: (Smiles politely.) Thank you.

(William exits stage left.)

(Beat of silence.)

BAILEY: (Snapping at Nikolas.) Why are you so determined to ruin this for me?

NIKOLAS: I could ask you the very same thing!

BAILEY: Oh, please! I know you haven't been as starved as I am. You can go out and feed on any townspeople you like, I must wait for someone here!

NIKOLAS: You have no idea what you're talking about! I do not feed on the townspeople; I've been just as hungry as you!

BAILEY: At least you have the choice!

NIKOLAS: I do not! They would poach me if I was ever found!

BAILEY: And they would exorcise me! Let me have this, Nick! I haven't terrified a man in so long, I grow less physical by the day!

NIKOLAS: Spare me the details, Bailey.

BAILEY: Did you see his expression? He would have died of fright before he left the courtyard! Oh, it would be so delicious...

NIKOLAS: And what about that white shirt? Can you imagine it, speckled with blood, unbuttoned to reveal his neck...

(Beat.)

BAILEY: Anyways--

NIKOLAS: Yes, anyways...

BAILEY: Perhaps there is something we could come to.

NIKOLAS: Yes, a compromise. I was just thinking that.

BAILEY: You do not need to kill him, yes? You could leave him bloodied and dizzy, stumbling through the house where I could step in?

NIKOLAS:(Now excited.) Ooh, very smart! He would be much easier to scare, as well! Rattle the windows and flicker the lights-

BAILEY: He'll be running for town in such a panic!

NIKOLAS: But he won't make it, of course.

BAILEY: No, of course, we can't have that. He'll pass out in the yard, and we can say he had a terrible accident.

(They each smile wistfully for a beat.)

NIKOLAS: He has been gone quite a while, hasn't he? How long does a restroom break last?

BAILEY: Shouldn't be this long. Maybe he's having... trouble...?

NIKOLAS: (After a pause.) We should check on him.

BAILEY: Yes, let's.

(Lights dim, Nikolas and Bailey exit stage left. The scenery changes, now depicting the ground-floor bathroom.)

NIKOLAS: (Calling from offstage, lights still down.) Mister Moore? William?

(No reply.)

BAILEY: (Knocking on the door.) Are you alright in there? You've been gone awfully long...

(Silence.)

NIKOLAS: (To Bailey.) Should we check on him...? He may be...

BAILEY: What other choice do we have?

(Lights rise a Nikolas and Bailey enter the stage. William looks just as how he did before, but is laying on the floor of the restroom, unmoving.)

NIKOLAS: (Shocked, putting a hand on Bailey's arm.) Oh my God...

BAILEY: (Wide eyes, equally shocked.) Is he...?!

(William does not move.)

(Nikolas crouches to put a hand over his chest, checking for a pulse.)

NIKOLAS: He is... He's dead...!

BAILEY: How...?!

(Nikolas shifts and William's body moves, his jaw falling open as his eyes stare vacant towards the ceiling.)

BAILEY: (Pointing.) Look! Nick! In his throat!

(Nikolas looks in, and his hand flutters to his mouth.)

NIKOLAS: Red and swollen, his cheeks look puffy... Could he have--?

BAILEY: An allergic reaction. It must be.

(A long beat of silence. Nikolas and Bailey look at each other.)

NIKOLAS: There goes a perfectly good meal.

(Blackout.)

FEBUARY 2023

Number of Pieces: 1

RATS!

Notes: N/A

down by the subway station,
the rats skitter through shadows,
into their holes across from the tracks,
chewing things,
red eyes, bloodshot,
the man next to you sneers,
he laughs bitterly and turns to you,
“where i'm from, our subways don't have pests”
you smile politely,
but don't respond

up by the train tracks,
where you take your evening walks,
you see the group of crust punks huddled together,
laughing tiredly,
hair frizzy, dirty,
you force a smile to yourself,
and you keep walking,
you tell yourself that you wish them well,
hope that they find a destination,
or stay safe while hopping trains

in your apartment's kitchen,
under the sink by the trash,
you catch a glance of a rat,
in the shadow,
in the back,
its eyes are wide and dark,
you think briefly about calling an exterminator,
but no, it's just one rat,
and the landlord might think,
you have a rat problem

when you were in gradeschool,
back in the town you were raised in,
one of your friends wanted a pet rat,
you were confused,
as was anyone she told,
“aren't rats dirty and gross?” you asked,
but she explained, calmly,
that rats are just like other rodents as pets,
when they're domesticated and clean,
and you supposed you could understand

your neighbor comes up to see what the fuss is,
you shouted when you saw the rat,
you didn't mean to, it was just surprise,
she's tall, pointed nose,
with round glasses,
she smiles at you when you open the door,
“do you need any help?” she asks kindly,
you shake your head, “no, it's just one rat”,
she nods understandingly and leaves,
once she knows that you don't need her help

your landlord calls pest control,
you don't know how he found out about the rat,
but the next day, while you're at work,
they come to your apartment,
and turn the place upside-down,
towels strewn about the kitchen floor,
trashcan set out of its cabinet,
and you're charged a fee for the service,
and have to clean up after the crew,
but at least the rat is definitely gone

you see it on the news one day,
a face you recognize from up by the train tracks,
you remember him huddled up against his friends,
frizzy hair,
patched-up and stained pants,
he'd fallen on the tracks and died two days ago,
slammed into the ground by the oncoming train,
only on the news because he'd been chased by police,
you feel a pang in your heart for his friends,
but it was just one loss

your landlord catches you in the hallway,
he smiles and you avoid his gaze,
he doesn't waver, and sidles up next to you,
his hair is too sleek,
and his walk too practiced,
“say, are you still having that rat problem?” he asks,
you shake your head, too subtle for him to tell,
“i've decided to allow pets under 45 pounds,”
he continues, “for a fee, of course,”
“maybe you should get a cat!”

NOVEMBER 2022

Number of Pieces: 2

Winchester 1873

Notes: Short story for my Creative Writing class. Features the same characters as my flash fiction story 'My Brother Bought Me a Pistol'

The pistol wasn't for killing men.

A handgun would better serve that purpose, but Winchester didn't plan to get into any deadly scuffles, being as quiet as he was. The pistol was for close-range animal attacks, wild dogs, or snakes. He would only carry it when traveling, the thing bulky and largely unneeded in town.

But, he was nineteen, and a pistol seemed like a simple rite of passage. A gift of independence.

Winchester turned the gun over in his hands, caressing the dark metal with his thumb. The object didn't quite feel real, too large in his grasp, like he was four years old all again.

His brother waited expectantly a few paces away, a smile in his eyes, do you like it?

Winchester looked up at him and forced a delighted expression.

“This is nice, Joseph, thank you.”

“Of course!” Joseph smiled back, more proud of himself than anything else.

The house was bright with morning sun, Winchester sitting awkwardly on the cramped, brown leather couch that had been in the living room for years. His brother leaned against the wall by the door. The room was small, but overwhelmingly familiar, a house that carried emotions, forgotten among the cracks in the floorboards.

Joseph gestured for his younger brother to stand, “C'mon, I'll teach you how to shoot,” and led him out of the house. Winchester followed close at his heels.

They walked, and their town was the same as ever. It was dying. Winchester could feel that well enough, the buildings worn and threatening their inhabitants with collapse. More people left each year, the only ones who stayed were the ones who were stuck, for one reason or another. Joseph waved to their disgruntled and tired neighbors. Winchester kept his head down. He never felt very welcome in this drained town, and though he had lived with many of these people for his whole life, Joseph was still the only one he knew.

They didn't walk far. There was a small clearing by the dried-up well not far from their house. It was a good bit out from the main buildings, far from the school, with hay targets set up in a line against a wall.

Joseph gestured for Winchester to hand him the pistol, and he did so, palming the thing over to his brother and stepping back a few paces. Giving away the weight of it was a relief.

Joseph loaded the gun easily and propped his foot back behind him. He held his arms out straight, one shoulder shrugged up, and fired. Winchester flinched at the loud popping sound, chips of wood and hay flinging off the target and into the dust below. His brother laughed at his bewildered expression, walking over to pat him gently on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, Winnie, you'll learn in time!"

Winchester shivered, but nodded, and let Joseph guide him into a stance more fit to shoot. He pressed the pistol against his palm as he held his arms out, standing behind him.

It was viscerally wrong. Winchester could feel it acutely. Joseph was his brother, but he was forced to be his father, and the role had never sunk in. Winchester swallowed back his worry. Joseph had taught him many things over the years-- there was no one else to do so-- and this should be no different.

"Like this?" Winchester asked in a hesitant tone, and his brother nodded.

"Tilt your wrist down a bit-- there you go. Stop shaking so much. Steady yourself, Winnie."

Sunlight shone down harshly through a cloudless sky; Winchester could distinctly feel the sensation. His gloves rubbing against skin, his boots digging into the dirt.

Joseph slowly backed away. "You're good! Shoot whenever you're ready, and remember the recoil!"

Winchester tried hard to steady his breathing-- and pulled the trigger.

He felt the force of the shot shove his body back, and he stumbled with the strength of it. Just as before, there was a loud POP, and Winchester couldn't stop himself from flinching again. His hands shook violently as he lowered the pistol, another hole in the target across the way.

Joseph clapped an encouraging hand on his back, and he recoiled slightly, head spinning.

"Fantastic! You're getting the hang of it!"

Winchester smiled weakly and forced himself to stand up straighter.

"It was loud," He admitted, handing the gun back over to his brother to be unloaded.

-

Winchester had assumed they would return home after that. They each had chores to do for the day, after all-- but Joseph had other plans.

When they arrived back in town, Winchester was led over to the small stables where Joseph kept his horse. He patted the animal on the side of its nose, and she huffed at him. The horse was old, named Dusty, and had first belonged to their father many years ago. Now, Joseph took care of her. He had led her out of the stable by the reins, and patted her down, getting her ready for travel.

When he hopped up onto her and gestured for Winchester to follow suit, he blinked back at Joseph quizzically.

"A nineteen-year-old needs to learn how to hunt sometime," Joseph explained, and Winchester felt his stomach drop. "We'll pack it in with the firing lesson. Now, grab my rifle for me, will you?"

The two made their way out once more, now to a large and open clearing, a good ways further from town than the last time. Winchester couldn't stop himself from beginning to worry.

It was, of course, his time. He was growing into a young man, and he would need to abandon his less useful habits eventually, in favor of learning all of the skills that a man would actually need in the real world.

It didn't stop the dread, though. Suffice to say-- Winchester was scared of this change. He'd lived a quaint and quiet life thus far (for the most part, anyway), and wasn't keen on parting with his more reclusive tendencies. He wanted so badly to be a good brother, a good man, an upstanding protector like Joseph was-- but, he couldn't shake the feeling that it all simply wasn't for him.

They arrived in the large plain, tufts of yellow grass growing out of the ground, reaching for the sunlight above. A large cluster of pheasants dotted the landscape, having emerged from their nests to eat bugs and bask in the morning dew.

Winchester shivered against the heat, feeling clammy. He'd seen these birds dead many times before, carcasses picked of their feathers and skinned to be cooked. It didn't change how he felt, the act of taking even a small life feeling completely unbearable.

Joseph patted his arm, and loaded the rifle, handing it over to his bewildered brother.

"Your pistol won't do well with these, sadly. It's fine for close-range skirmishes, but you're not going to get far trying to hunt a bird that way. Besides, you've shot a rifle before, right? A few years ago? One of the times when you weren't helping Mom in the kitchen?"

Winchester nodded an affirmation. He had, he remembered. It wasn't too long ago. He was probably only fifteen.

By Joseph's instruction, Winchester attempted to calm his nerves and readied to fire. He still shook against the weight of the weapon and his own dread. He gazed down the barrel at a fairly-sized pheasant, intently plucking at its feathers.

“Remember, steady yourself, Winnie,” Joseph reminded him. He hovered over Winchester's shoulder, his arm extended in a steady point toward the bird. “It's just like that target since it's not moving,” he added, and slowly began to back away. “Don't forget the recoil either. It'll be more than your pistol's.”

Winchester sent a quick glance toward Joseph in acknowledgement. This felt much worse, deeply upsetting in a way that was much beyond the hay target from before. To keep from shaking too much, he took a breath and held it, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. He prepared himself again for the awful noise, swallowing his emotions down thickly.

POP!

Winchester was sent staggering backwards, barely catching himself against the force. A ringing fuzziness overtook him for a moment, senses completely overwhelmed. They slowly cleared, in time to hear Joseph's congratulations.

“You're a natural! Great gob!” He stepped up to carefully lower the point of the rifle.

In the field, grass spattered with blood, lay the unmoving corpse of the shot pheasant. The birds surrounding had taken to panicked fluttering, cawing out to their friends as they retreated to safety. But, abandoned by the carcass, were the tiny bodies of chicks. They nuzzled their dead mother's feathers, chirping, crying out for help.

From Winchester's hands, the rifle thunked onto the ground. He dipped, panicked, to grab it again, only for him to never rise to his feet.

His world began to swim. Everything about this was wrong. He gazed across the way, and clutched the gun tight, watching the pheasant chicks dancing in panic. He felt sick. By his hand, the children were doomed to death along with their mother. They were fully abandoned, afraid.

“You okay?” Joseph asked, dropping onto one knee next to Winchester, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Winnie, what's wrong?”

He couldn't respond. Too guilty, too afraid. He was caught in a mental tug-of-war, completely unsure if he should apologize to the bird or to his brother. Either way would be inadequate. He tossed the rifle away from himself limply, and curled up against the dirt, sobbing.

-

The morning had become afternoon. Winchester was still stuck in those horrid moments, mind still obsessing over the lives of those chicks, though now he had turned away from them. He and Joseph still sat in that clearing, now empty of most of the pheasants that had populated the area not long before. The sun was high in the cloudless blue, looking down on Winchester with contempt.

His breathing had steadied out, Joseph's hand a steady presence on his chest. Rise and fall, rise and fall.

“Do you mind… Telling me what happened?” Joseph finally requested after a long silence. When his brother simply recoiled into himself , Joseph added, “You don't have to. We can just go home.”

“I don't like guns.” Winchester murmured, wringing his hands at his sides.

“What?”

“Weapons-- Anything. I can't do it.”

Joseph shook his head. “You aren't expected to kill people, Winnie.”

“Anything! People and animals. It doesn't feel right.”

Joseph grimaced, as if he had already known.

“Can I ask why?”

Winchester sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “I don't know.” He paused. He did know. “Maybe… It's because I understand what it's like. After Mom and Dad-- I know what it's like to lose someone. Everything's connected, Joseph, I see it all the time. The bugs eat the grass, and the pheasants eat the bugs, and the coyotes eat the pheasants. Lives are lost and they're missed by everyone. I don't wanna contribute to it. I'm sorry.”

He couldn't bring himself to look up, and his heart sank as he felt Joseph's hand retract. It returned, though, now settling on his back, as Winchester was pulled into a hug.

“Don't apologize. Please, Winnie. I can tell how hurt you were, I'm sorry I can't make you feel better about it! You don't have to hunt. You could settle down farming or barter for cans of beans-- I don't know.” Joseph drew away, sorrow held in his gaze. ”...Thank you for telling me.”

Winchester glanced up at his brother, he felt like crying all over again. He tried to say something, but he choked on the words.

The world suddenly seemed clearer, and Winchester felt that maybe he wasn't so alone.

My Brother Bought Me a Pistol

Notes: Flash fiction story for my Creative Writing class. Features the same characters as my short story 'Winchester 1873'

Hot sun laid heavily on Winchester's bare forearms, his gloves momentarily aside and his skin not quite all being shaded by the brim of his hat.

The warm stone he sat on kept him grounded, the steady flow of water in the nearby river a constant and comforting white noise. Birds in the sky above flocked and flitted restlessly.

He should be on his way back to town, by now. He had only come out this far from town to collect water from the river, if he didn't return soon, people would become worried and suspicious.

He couldn't raise himself, though, too focused in his only semblance of time to himself. Leaving a trail of clumsy black ink in its wake, his pen moved rapidly across a scrap of yellow paper, one which had once been a flier advertising something-or-other goods. Words danced across the canvas:

My brother bought me a pistol / And held his hand over mine / An action familial in nature, an act for no one's brother. / He--

He stopped the flow of his script, looking up from his pen in order to decide what the next word should be, and meeting the unexpected gaze of his brother-- true and in the flesh-- staring down back at him.

“Young Winnie's a writer!”

Joseph said in teasing glee, and the poet startled, scrambling aimlessly to hide his sheath of papers. He had tried so hard to keep this hobby a secret—it was useless and unbecoming of a man! A man fit and raised to protect, not to be a writer. But, he had become too confident, and now he would pay.

Surely Joseph would scold him, and Winchester prepared himself for a barrage of angered words, his older brother snatched a paper out from between his bare fingers.

There was a moment of agonizing anticipation, Winchester hardly baring to open his eyes and read the expression on Joseph's face, trying to calm himself by focusing on the light jingle of the spurs on his boots as they clinked against a stone.

Joseph read. Winchester knew which one. A short piece, outlining a hacking emotion of abandonment and isolation after their parents had gone—surely, he would be reprimanded for dwelling on such things, surely, he shouldn't allow himself to be devoured by these weakening feelings--

“This is incredible,”

Joseph said it with a tone of wonderment, as if discovering the other side of a river for the very first time, as if being greeted with a herd of ripe cattle, untapped and undiscovered.

“You must submit this to the library, you truly have a gift, Winnie,”

Winchester glanced up from his stupor, taken aback.

“Thank you...” He smiled weakly, feeling relieved.

Joseph gestured for him to stand, and he complied, pulling his gloves back on as he did.

OCTOBER 2022

Number of Pieces: 4

Night In The Woods: a God that doesn't care about us

Notes: Night In The Woods has been one of the most formative pieces of media for me, and has influenced me greatly along with just being one of my all-time favorite games. This is almost definitely not the last time I will write in insiration from it

I want to live passionately, I want to affect the lives of others while I'm here. I want to hope for a better future, it gives me something to hurt for. I want to look into the eyes of a God and tell it how much it's done, and I want it to not give a shit about me. I need to hold onto something, in the way a lover holds onto their money, in a way that a bird holds onto a clump of wire-- I need to see hints that the sky is changing, and be surprised at how quickly it does. I want this city to forget me when I'm buried under the foundations of new houses. I want the memories of my actions to slowly end, because before I'm dead, I'll never die.

You're moving out, and I'm staying put, and the promise of forever means nothing. The voices of young ones are being stifled by a damp cotton cloth, softly pressing down on my lips.

I will watch the library be torn down, and the old factories stand tall like grocery stores that no one knows what to do with anymore-- that no one has a need for anymore. And I'll live in the same city as my town, and I'll live right next door to my childhood home. And I'll cry because I can't break anything correctly; Can anyone even listen anymore? Does it matter?

When the sinkhole opens up in the middle of the night-- the world is changed-- and no one even heard when it happened.

Being trans is like when you're a kid and all the adults are talking about you above your head and you can't chime in because you're too small even though they're getting everything wrong

Notes: I wrote this while at a weekend-long event, in which I felt very out of place and different due to being the only trans person there, despite the fact that people weren't purposefully othering me

I have a pin I got from an Etsy shop that reads “TRANS PEOPLE CAN'T BE DEBATED OUT OF EXISTENCE” (the shop is called Raz Nasty, I highly recommend that you go support his art!) And I've been thinking about it a lot.
Over the past years, we've seen an uprising in debate and discussion over the mere existence of trans people. British media has been front-paged as the main offenders of this, and it's really a problem in many nations-- though especially the US and Britain. I live in the US and am constantly frustrated while I helplessly watch these politicians and news anchors and “experts” absolutely pummel their strawman of what a trans person is, what a trans person looks like, what a trans person thinks-- without ever actually consulting a real-life transgender living breathing human person. They don't see us as worthy of having a voice in the conversation, to them we're just a weird little dog that the family is trying to decide if they want to keep-- and oftentimes they decide that they would rather kill the dog for being a dog.
Maybe that's a bad metaphor.
Nonetheless, my point is just that being trans is exhausting. Being constantly misunderstood and misrepresented and persecuted and fearful is extremely tiring. To say the least.

That's not really what this rant was meant to be about, though. As difficult as the trans experience in general can be, I really just wanna talk about my personal experiences right now.

To me, there's something about the pressure; when I realized that everyone in that room must think of me only as “the trans kid”, I almost thought I would be sick with the weight of it. I can imagine it clearly, being in their shoes as they speak politely to me, trying hard to decipher a way to think of me as simple and normal. A way to shrink me down and not have to think too hard about the whole thing. And I almost wish there was a way to do so, I wish I could be reduced to nothing but an awkward-boy character, flat and one-dimensional, simple and easy to understand.
But, I'm not. I'm fully-realized, half-baked, I'm an awkward-boy with thousands of complexities, I'm a person too big for my body.
They've known me since birth, baptized wholly and unknowingly into the church of my forgiving parents, and I'm wanted there my full life. I'm still their child. Too big for my body.

They want to treat me well,
They want me to be treated well,
But I'm never heard. How should they know what I need?

Victim of Pygmalion

Notes: Based on the narrative found in the album "Burn Pygmalion! A Better Guide to Romance" by The Scary Jokes. It's one of my personal favorite albums despite not being within my typical genre preferences

He carves her willfully
And so she is hurt
And she crawls out with her skin on fire

When she finds her way
Into the arms of another
She combusts
And she loses her strength
To do much at all

"Please hold me,"
She warns,
The flowers of her lover being torn apart by flame,
'She's a star, you know'
Her thoughts offer
'Sylvia's a star'

She knows the bugs
She knows the chisel
She feels them crawling in her cracks

"I'm lying! I'm lying!"
She calls to the sun
And her star answers her,
She won't leave,
She loves you.

HORSEFACE

Notes: Notes: I wrote this in an almost rant-like way. I remember being very worked up after watching a video on various social issues, and so I opened a word doc and just started writing

“Pull yourself up”
They said
And they laughed because they had the strength
Or they pretend they might have
To inspire
Or to preach
Or to shove you away--
And families they give their money
To young-face boy billionaires
To men with receding hairlines
Who don't have a cure for cancer
Who build rocketships to space
For only themselves

And of course we're mad!
Of course i'm slamming words
Into a free website
For free thinkers
And i hope i go somewhere

We're living in basements
And some on the streets
And artists are dying like Vincent
And artists are preaching in videos
About how they learned to work for a company
That gets bought up and shut down

We're individuals!
We're people!
We need to save ourselves!
Who can fix us but the power we hold within us?
Therapists don't help
Parroting back our own insecurities
Hoping we work them out
The demand is too high
Replace it with an app!
And dehumanize consumers
Until they're dying on live tv

I thought this poem would make me famous
Maybe it would pay for college
Maybe it would make me rich
So I can sit on Mars and laugh

I heard a poem in class
About billboards and owing money
It struck me that we're all living
Under the same roof
All writing words in anger
About money and power
And at eleven years old
I thought i could do more for the environment
Than the people spilling oil rigs into oceans

If you want people to stop hating you,
Then you should make yourself more like them
You should stack ladders on themselves
And duct-tape them together
And reach the moon that way
And tell all your friends that you're leaving your old life behind
And that you're going to university

I want to believe in a future
Where people aren't afraid of the homeless
Where i don't force myself to look away because i can't bring myself to give
Where the victims of our system aren't left behind by their friends who're escaping
And I don't want to stop the car
To give the people who live in poverty
My leftover lunch

And the computers
And email scams
And the blog posts
Top Ten ways to get rich slightly-quicker-than-normal
what-is-normal-?
Here, you-should-break-too-many-laws
Its-the-only-way-out
repeated-offense-
get-thrown-in-a-prison-full-of-people-who-want-you-dead
And-bow-to-a-judge-that-hates-you
And-a-jury-who-wants-to-get-back-to-work
To-get-their-paycheck
to-bow-to-a-boss-that-wants-them-dead

Oh look how much better we are!
We don't burn witches at the steak like those unimportant-third-in-line-lost-to-the-causes-places!
We broadcast them on national tv so that people know their names and faces
And can find them on a free website for free-thinkers
And throw bricks through their windows
Because they're trying to make a difference
And we laugh because we learned about being a businessman from blogs

Our lives are not connected
Its us against them
Pay respects for a queen but not for the good-hearted volunteer who was shot-dead by a man who protects our country
Pay respects for our still-living ex-president
Who broadcasted my name on national tv
And not for me
And no respect for me
Because i'm not rich
Because i didn't know how to be smart
Because i am stuck
We're all stuck

Pull yourself together
And get out of your well
And listen to no one
And work your nine to five
And work your six to eight
And work your twelve to twelve
And have children for us

Eat the money if you have to,
Eat your friends if you have to,
Eat yourself if you have to,
Your boots were made for running.