Wattpad

Bonjour! Ça va bien? Je l’espère et que vous avez mangé beaucoup de bonbons.

I apologize for my absence. I’ve been somewhat of a hermit and keeping to myself lately. I’ve also been preoccupied with a website I’ve just discovered called Wattpad. Do you use Wattpad? I would love to read your works!

In short, Wattpad is a social network for writers and readers. You can write anything you’d like and publish it for the world to see. Additionally, you can discover the written works of others, follow along with them, leave comments and critiques, make friends, etc. There is even a book cover creator! I am plotzing just thinking about it.

I’m currently writing a short story I call Citrus, about Valencia, a bohemian barista who must walk to work after her car battery dies. Along the way she encounters numerous obstacles that may or may not make her late in the end… I’ll never tell! (Mostly because I haven’t decided if she’s going to make it on time or not, yet.) It’s an ongoing, live-updating story, and I publish each part as I finish it. It’s got just three parts so far, but if you’d like to follow along with Val on her misadventure to her job, you can read it here. Each part is just a few paragraphs long and doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes to read through.

If you’re a fellow Wattpadder, feel free to check me out under username w0rdsm17h.

Jusqu’à la prochaine fois!

Paint Chips in My Coffee: An Excerpt

The water is now up to my waistline and panic has formally settled over me. A light breeze intermittently clears my face of the flyaway strands of hair that formerly sat flush with my skin, wet and saturated. This provides to me a fleeting sense of calmness, though I don’t remember opening a window. That would be something difficult to rationalize in late autumn. A quick, squinting glance outside, however, offers an idyllic scene: the trees across the street seem newly blossoming, cottony fibers dancing gently in the air.

I hear a bark reminiscent of Wyckoff’s in the distance. He sounds distressed. I call for him but as the barks continue, I can’t make out from which direction they’re coming. They seem to beg from a new location each time. I begin to think that if I look quickly enough, I’ll see him there; it becomes dizzying. My anxiety is magnified tenfold by the entirety of the situation, and whether or not the room is actually spinning is beyond my comprehension. It’s not out of the question given what’s happened thus far.

It isn’t long before I lose my footing; the room spins faster now as I fall backwards into the milky, lathery water. As I sink, residual bits of conversation from dinner swirl around in my head. Exchanges that didn’t even occur are making themselves prevalent—perhaps suppressed thoughts that never made it up through the esophagus, but rather stayed hidden and festering in the lining of the stomach. I can hear Mom and Dad weighing in, though they tend to keep quiet during familial altercations. It’s best to stay impartial, they always said.

Should I still be sinking? The water was not that deep, yet I feel like I’ve been falling for tens of minutes. I open my eyes to see light not too far off, askew by the rippling surface. …

To be continued.

Then They Will Know

With these accolades you lay upon me,

I sleep more soundly,

as my self-worth is upheld by the praise

of others.

I won’t ask for you to idolize me,

but I will not decline the invitation

onto your pedestal,

because then and only then can

the corners of my mouth

curl upwards in enlivenment.

A wilting bud at best, I am,

without it;

bent and breathless,

hanging in limbo

by the crevice of a broken nail.

Yet I’m revived at last

in your unprompted recommendation,

because then they will know

that I am good and I am capable

in the eyes of more

than just myself.

After all,

what does my confidence offer,

but an undeserved crutch

of approval?

A Single Sentence Story

The salt on my tongue is a bit more sour now that I’ve lost my sense of taste.

Rocking Chair

The days have turned to dust

The nights are left to rust

until a tinge of silver hope pastels your hair

Now the chicks have flown the coup

The hours set to loop

until you’ve found music in the creek

of that old rocking chair

Let go of my head.

I said, I said, I said, I would cater to your ego, and fold my hands in prayer for your religion, if you would love me, and walk me every day.

–Maria Mena, These Shoes

Thursday

Moments like these are fleeting

but I can’t see ahead:

the fog is much too dense

and these shackles are a bit crippling

the way they keep me weighted down

Bobbing below the surface

where my vision is skewed, and where

I’m mere inches from clarity

but common sense is like a mass

hugging my vital organs

and I would do anything to feel like

my lungs were mine again,

like I had time again

If I weren’t so consumed in

my own self-pity

I might find solace in screaming

but my throat is raw,

and starving of words once again

A sense of expression that I’ve been without

for months again

Gerund

(n.) a verb whose present progressive form functions as a noun

e.g. ‘Writing’ in I like writing. (As opposed to I like to write.)

Moment of Clarity

There’s no growth without struggle. It’s necessary and imperative that you fuck up several thousand times in order to learn. Even at twenty-three, I’m still making amateur mistakes and laying brick after brick without mortar. Then I wonder why my foundations aren’t sturdy. It’s all about what you take from your experiences, and crafting from them the next few feet in your path ahead. When it abruptly ends, you’ve got to keep building. You have to lay out your own direction. Trust your struggle. We’re all children, and there’s always room for improvement.

Unfinished, Untitled, Unsent

Queue the vocoder answer-song
A voice that sings to me when you’re gone
His words don’t charge through me like yours
They don’t ignite the fire I was hoping for

The longer I stare, the more encrypted my vision
that I cock my head and swallow hard at your decision
Your pack of wolves blows through me with success
if you bring those eyes ‘round here again, just leave me to my mess

Enter the crow with a scroll in its beak
A letter of rejection written down through your teeth
Your arms, like tourniquets, saved me from injury
But now every ligament feels the pain
Blood’s taken it upon itself to drain
And you’re responsible for this; the death of me