DESCRIPTION 3 ︎︎︎ Writer
I recently finished the first draft of my first novel, Green.
Excerpt: Heavy (flash fiction)
The trees thin beyond the thicket, into a grove with soft ground and a view of the water. When I push past the branches, I see my love bent forward as if in prayer. As I step closer, I see that there are more bends in him, like a note folded and crumpled. Inconspicuous and fragile, charged with the kind of energy only love or death can bring. I sit with him. I take his broken face into my arms and wipe the bloodied hair away from it. There is a gash in his neck. It flutters now. How could you do this to me? Adonis blinks slowly. I’m sorry. My tears hit the bridge of his nose and roll down his cheek. Even this seems to hurt him. Please stay.
//
I sit with him long after life leaves his body. Each of my ribs feel cracked loose, percussive and rattling, like I’ve become a permanent instrument of mourning. I close my eyes and wait for the right time to leave. When I open them again, I see my arms have turned to stone, holding forever onto my Adonis. They break off as I stand. I look down at my marbled, detached fingers, unburdened and perfect, pressing into the loam. I walk to the sea, every step more rigid than the last. I hear waves lapping at stone— it is my feet they are hitting. I am sinking and can no longer move; my joints harden to rock and the heat begins to dissipate. I wait for the pain to go away. One day they will discover my body. They will crowd around me and see only beauty.
The trees thin beyond the thicket, into a grove with soft ground and a view of the water. When I push past the branches, I see my love bent forward as if in prayer. As I step closer, I see that there are more bends in him, like a note folded and crumpled. Inconspicuous and fragile, charged with the kind of energy only love or death can bring. I sit with him. I take his broken face into my arms and wipe the bloodied hair away from it. There is a gash in his neck. It flutters now. How could you do this to me? Adonis blinks slowly. I’m sorry. My tears hit the bridge of his nose and roll down his cheek. Even this seems to hurt him. Please stay.
//
I sit with him long after life leaves his body. Each of my ribs feel cracked loose, percussive and rattling, like I’ve become a permanent instrument of mourning. I close my eyes and wait for the right time to leave. When I open them again, I see my arms have turned to stone, holding forever onto my Adonis. They break off as I stand. I look down at my marbled, detached fingers, unburdened and perfect, pressing into the loam. I walk to the sea, every step more rigid than the last. I hear waves lapping at stone— it is my feet they are hitting. I am sinking and can no longer move; my joints harden to rock and the heat begins to dissipate. I wait for the pain to go away. One day they will discover my body. They will crowd around me and see only beauty.
Excerpt: Coyotes (short story)
There is no moon out. The air is black. Sophie can just barely see that the shadows are moving. She looks down at Mila and says in a soft voice, it’s okay buddy, don’t worry about the coyotes.
Colleen is closing the door behind them. Coyotes?
Dread seeps into Sophie’s stomach.
Yeah, we have coyotes in this neighborhood. It’s super common here— they’re harmless, though, don’t worry.
You mean like a real coyote? Like a wild animal?
Yes, Mom. But they’re pretty domesticated. They live up in those hills and come down at night. Not a big deal.
Colleen is flashing her light erratically, scanning the hills, scanning the dark street ahead. At the sound of the wind rustling the leaves around them, she lets out a tiny scream.
How far do you have to go?
Sophie stops to let Mila sniff a mailbox.
We go around the whole block, she says. This is the darkest stretch, though. We’ll be okay.
Colleen takes a deep breath and follows behind, flashing her light left and right. Sophie walks ahead. Her wrist is throbbing after a full day at work, but she does not mention this to her mother. If her mother knew that her Lupus wasn’t under control, she would not be able to talk about anything else. Colleen would spend her days googling symptoms, researching doctors, finding clinical trials. She would email Sophie pages and pages of information. She would amplify the stress– she would make it worse.
You’re walking too fast! Colleen whisper-shouts.
Sophie stops to let her mother catch up.
If I walk too slow, she won’t get any exercise, Sophie says, pointing to the dog.
But honey, it’s dark out and I can’t see where I’m going.
You have a flashlight.
They round the corner, moving deeper into the pitch-black stretch of road. Sophie hears a noise above them, on the sloped lawn to their left. She trains her eyes on the shadows and sees two glowing orbs flash by, a face catching the light of a nearby porch. Sophie’s heartbeat quickens, and she picks up her pace again, watching the hill. The road is not long, she tells herself. Just a few more steps before we reach the next streetlight.
There is no moon out. The air is black. Sophie can just barely see that the shadows are moving. She looks down at Mila and says in a soft voice, it’s okay buddy, don’t worry about the coyotes.
Colleen is closing the door behind them. Coyotes?
Dread seeps into Sophie’s stomach.
Yeah, we have coyotes in this neighborhood. It’s super common here— they’re harmless, though, don’t worry.
You mean like a real coyote? Like a wild animal?
Yes, Mom. But they’re pretty domesticated. They live up in those hills and come down at night. Not a big deal.
Colleen is flashing her light erratically, scanning the hills, scanning the dark street ahead. At the sound of the wind rustling the leaves around them, she lets out a tiny scream.
How far do you have to go?
Sophie stops to let Mila sniff a mailbox.
We go around the whole block, she says. This is the darkest stretch, though. We’ll be okay.
Colleen takes a deep breath and follows behind, flashing her light left and right. Sophie walks ahead. Her wrist is throbbing after a full day at work, but she does not mention this to her mother. If her mother knew that her Lupus wasn’t under control, she would not be able to talk about anything else. Colleen would spend her days googling symptoms, researching doctors, finding clinical trials. She would email Sophie pages and pages of information. She would amplify the stress– she would make it worse.
You’re walking too fast! Colleen whisper-shouts.
Sophie stops to let her mother catch up.
If I walk too slow, she won’t get any exercise, Sophie says, pointing to the dog.
But honey, it’s dark out and I can’t see where I’m going.
You have a flashlight.
They round the corner, moving deeper into the pitch-black stretch of road. Sophie hears a noise above them, on the sloped lawn to their left. She trains her eyes on the shadows and sees two glowing orbs flash by, a face catching the light of a nearby porch. Sophie’s heartbeat quickens, and she picks up her pace again, watching the hill. The road is not long, she tells herself. Just a few more steps before we reach the next streetlight.