Prose
Whatever Happened to Molly
Published in Art Farts College Zine, October 2000.
I look at his arms, and I find myself touching them in my head. The way they look is hard to describe. But when I look at them, I see him in me. I don't know how else to put it. Then I begin to explain how I feel, knowing full well that he will say 'no'.
"You don't even know me," he says.
"Yes I do," I reply in full honesty. "I have been your best friend for quite some time now, and the only reason I don't know specifics about your life, doesn't mean I don't know you. You are a closed book, and apparently I am predictable."
"No! You are the hardest person for me to understand, but I know that you are young and you don't know what you want..."
I nod despairingly. "I know exactly who I am (it's definitely taken me a while to get there) and I don't think you give me enough credit."
He knew for quite some time apparently, refusing to disclose any information to me at all. My head spins and my stomach reels. The moment I told him, I knew that I was right. Incapable of love--he says, he is incapable of relationships.
Later he comes to me to tell me that it is the dream I want, not him. I find that funny considering that the dream doesn't include him at all. The dream is more complex, something that he could never understand, because the dream was about someone other than him, someone I know I can't have. Someone ridiculously unreachable. This was the first time in my life where I found myself completely incapable of life. Not because of him, but because of this undeniable idea that no one will truly understand me.
He says that he knows me better than anyone, and then he doesn't.
I love him with all my heart and soul that exists within me, a feeling that I have been trying to dodge my entire life. Finally, when I come to terms with it...There is nothing but empty loneliness. I never find myself or declare myself lonely. But the one thing I know for sure, is that life maybe not worth living at all if no one can see me for me.
Short Stories
Miserable Percy (Excerpt)
Published in Summer Writing Program Collection, July 2009.
He was a fat man. His stomach stretched out beyond his center creating its own hemisphere. Most of his clothes were from some discount ‘big-and-tall’ store with one of his sleeves just a bit longer than the other. He always wore a polka dot bow tie tightly around his hanging neck. He was a very meticulous man. He felt that order was the true key to success and therefore was determined, through compulsive tidiness, to one day find the perfect woman. His uptight behavior trickled down throughout his environment into all that made up who he was. His kitchen was sparkling and pristine and perfect. The rest of his small obsessively clean apartment followed suit to the kitchen.
He knew he was fat, but his love for food adapted when he gave up on the idea that he would ever find someone. He was too weird. He was too odd. It wasn’t until his mother suggested the internet that he thought about dating again, or even a woman, for that matter. But, as per his mother’s request, old Percy had a date and dieting had now become the forefront of his daily routine. What Percy didn’t know, or want to admit, was that dieting wasn’t all about eating salads. None the less, through pools of ranch and Caesar dressings, his date had finally arrived.
Percy pulled out his neatly pinned blue Oxford shirt and red bow tie, complete with white polka dots. He set his steaming hot shower, which he had percolated to be a consistent ninety degrees after exactly three and a half minutes of preheating upon move-in. After his shower, of course, he would then ritualistically wipe down the mirror and stare at the crevices of his face that seemed to increase in size with age but never saw any excitement to warrant that natural transgression. But today, he was so elated yet nervous, that this controlled self felt the need for a pep talk.
“Okay, Percy, no pressure. Remember it’s just a first date.” He straightens his bow tie. “You’ve got a good job…a steady paycheck…a clean home… You’re a catch.” He pulls the softly sagging skin back from his eyes with his pointer and middle fingers and awkwardly clears his throat. “Everything a girl could ever want. And what about your looks…” He turns sideways and inhales a deep breath in while straightening upward. “Looking good…looking good. The diet is working.” He knows this is a lie anyway, but combs his wet, slick hair back towards his tail and snaps his fingers at the mirror, while winking one eye in shameful false-eluded confidence. “I can do this… Absolutely… No question…” He fixates on his image for a moment. Stone-cold, he abruptly turns and heads back for the porcelain department of the bathroom. All the security he could muster purged itself into the toilet that day. Nothing was left but a grain of sand festering deep in his will which was already occupied by his ability to live. He was screwed.
Forgetfulness (Excerpt)
Published in Comedy in Nature: A Collection, June 2009
Her hair was as white as the mountains after a snow storm, a sight she had seen many times before but a memory that was becoming as vacant as the rest. Her withered face that once was full of life and spirit was now diminishing and glazed over. The people around her frightened her. They poked and prodded her and swarmed around her. She never recognized any of them. Her young children never seemed to visit anymore. Older, maturated strangers would come by claiming to be her children but she grew paranoid and confused. She couldn’t trust anyone. She couldn’t remember anyone.
Outside the window, outside her favorite window, the same window she looked through every day stood a giant walnut tree with large crooked branches that stretched towards the ground. There were so many branches, in fact, that at four o’ clock every day the sun would shine through in such a way that the cascading shadows would create an antique film projector quality, flickering flashes of color across her blank face triggering quick snippets. Memories of the beach, running, prom night, nothing tangible or solid. By six, the sun would set behind the adjacent faraway buildings blanketing a darkness over the tree, and then the window, and finally her face. A disappointment would settle over her though she would never remember why. The dark cloud would only thicken until bedtime finally befell her.
Fiction Novels
Insert Title Here: A Pseudo Theology of Love and Death
CHAPTER ONE (Excerpt)
Not yet Published...
Everything was supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to be everything I ever wanted, but it was far from it. I was engaged to Ethan. I guess you could say Ethan was at the right place at the right time, because now all I felt was trapped, wondering how I got in this mess in the first place. Why couldn’t I be happy? Why wasn’t I okay? Any other girl in my position would thank their lucky stars to be marrying such a devoted man, but not me. It was as if I woke up one day with this realization, like a plastic grocery bag secured tightly around my head suffocating me into submission.
Ethan was a good man…well, he was a good boy. He was five years younger than me and the more I grew as a person, the more I just felt like a babysitter. His idea of spending time together was a night at home to play video games and I was in the general vicinity. That was his idea of closeness, togetherness, sharing. You have no idea what it’s like to come second to a machine. But Ethan wasn’t all bad. He loved me more than anything and he was my best friend. I just realized that I was no longer in love with him and it was time to let go.
There were many moments I can so clearly recall where we would fight for endless hours. Things always needed to change, and they never did. I always needed more than just knowing he loved me, and he needed to be young, hang out with his friends, play video games, and smoke pot. I was over it. I imagined years and years from now. What would it be like—my life? I couldn’t shake the thought of me wearing a faded muumuu, living my permanent residence in the endless wasteland of Tucson, Arizona, in some double wide trailer somewhere in the desolation of the desert, never experiencing the career I always wanted. Besides, I already owned the faded muumuu. I shutter at the thought of the mistake I almost made. Did I really want to be a fifty year old waitress with nothing to show for myself but a husband?
It was at that moment, the moment I realized that I was settling that I knew it was all over. All of the pleading and fighting and compromise had done nothing for my relationship and as quickly as we had fallen in love, so had I fallen out. I no longer loved him, yearned for him, or desired his closeness. The idea of sex disgusted me because it was only a constant reminder of how much energy I had put into the idea of ‘us’ and mostly, how it still failed. The last three years of my life had come to and end and I understood what I had to do. It was time to break the heart of the one person I had grown accustomed to, depended on…my best friend, and so I did. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Almost in slow motion, I watched his face change as the words spilled over my lips and he knew that there was nothing to do to change my mind. It was done.
I cried for days, replaying the image of his broken heart over and over in my head. I drank a lot. I started sleeping around. I was a mess. I knew I had made the right decision; I just couldn’t shake the painful feeling of what I had done, and losing my best friend. I began cutting myself, an old teenage habit that decided to rear its ugly head. I had no control over myself anymore.