Creative Writing

And the web could never apologize for the way you weave your lies, like baskets holding guilt too heavy for their weight on dates passed due.

Morning pours over the house-topped hills and seeps through fogged window panes…

In the summer after brushing every tree we passed on the trail, we drive home hot under our clothes and the heavy heat…

To climb a mountain is to pour your weight towards the unknown, to find your footing on a ledge whose path is crumbling…

Stretching, the aching muscles fall into, the motions worn in stretching the confines of a house on lockdown, the fibrous masks…

At first daybreak, before earth birthed atmosphere there was no sound, only silence, then we of mangled word and worms tread the earth, and you—hush all the commotion…

I leave these words a loose leaf, printed on pages, turning, even on the flip-side, dangling from a ball point pen…

he opens the windows, because the brick walls seem to love trapping in [the heat] reminiscent of his mother’s arms in youth…

i—you, i really—you, but you don’t know it yet/or maybe you do…

Endless November scratches its way across my windowpane, a stunning picture I watch but cannot touch…

Along the shoreline the ocean rolls in constant offering, tugging and fighting with itself to be the first hand to ferry in the new.

“You okay?” Tristan's hand leapt off of my shoulder in what’d felt like an afterthought. I hadn’t heard the urgency woven into the low timbre of his voice.

The day began with the red sun. Red like the blood from a freshly born wound, shifting to a warm orange then to yellow. The pan of colors mixed in the palate of the sky diffusing out like thin watercolor soaking into a cold blue page.

During hot summers like these, the air inside the video arcade smells of melting rubber, and down below, the carpet looks like a mild acid trip. Flashing neon lights bounce in the reflection of the glass cases, and Game Over echoes its synthesized voice through the sounds of gunfire and button-mashing clinging to sticky fingers…

After supper, he would always let out a big heavy sigh as if to reboot his system before processing. That, or he was growing tired of the meals Ma prepared us, and tired of keeping up the act.

My foot catches on the stale cracked sidewalk as I walk to school. A right down Melrose, 3 blocks down Roberts. Too often it slips my mind to grab a jacket…

Interrogation — Okay, I know what you’re thinking. This looks bad, and why would he, a middle school meathead, want to save the school? First of all, ouch.

Every forest I visit tells a story of perseverance. The tall tropical posts of El Yunque National Forest, speak of the vibrant native birds and immense biodiversity traversing across its soil, but also of increasingly harsh hurricanes ripping at its shores. The pines of the midwest tell of delicate snowfall, prancing deer and rabbits, but also of sporadic highs and lows in temperature…

I remember the joy of logging in to our family computer in the early aughts (‘00s). Our tan clunky monitor weighed the room, flashing a plane of cotton-fuzz clouds that stretched east and west across our screen. Our computer was always leashed to its side, panting labored sighs of warm exhaust…