november’s end

she walks along the forest path lined

with mushrooms the color of trees’

blood, sap dripping in amber

hues that are golden like the sun that

shines through spots in the leaves and

her hair flows like the orange river that

cuts through dying leaves the color of

earth and blood and fire and

she smiles, knowing that the end has come



she prostrates herself at the feet of the mother, a hymn to the dead on her lips. veils thin and the thrum of power echoes across the space between worlds, seeps through cracks and pours out into the night. a fog on a Halloween night, one that whispers of ghosts long past. it arches over the girl, words still spilling from her mouth.

in the darkened room, the fog is shadows. they shift and swirl, forming shapes that go unnoticed. and then She is there, lady of the underworld with Her crown of thorns and roses. Her smile is saccharine, too much morphine in the drip as it washes over the lovesick worshipper, a gentle hand tilting the girl’s face up. eyes wide, the words stop, the girl gazing at her mother goddess.

“Have you ever tasted death?” She asks.

from here, the girl can almost see the skull beneath the hair that covers Her face. “No,” she answers, the word escaping like a last breath.

the goddess’ lips pull back into a more wolfish smile. “Then let me show you,” She says, and leaves only a rose petal behind.


when they say “the world is your oyster,” do they mean

i can pull it out, screaming,

from its shell

or use it to mass produce a milky white pearl

that will sell for hundreds of dollars one day?


do they mean i can exploit it,

dig it from its watery safe haven,

put it up for auction,

people’s faces pressed against the glass, saying

“this one, this one will do”?


can i collect a whole galaxy’s worth of people’s oysters

people who just left them there in the dark depths

of the ocean in space?

can i cook them all up or eat them on the half shell,

my lips stained with the tears of their inhabitants?


i think i’d like to make a pretty penny

off these oysters,

if i can

just to taste

the salt of emotion again


Oysters $20 a pound

Oysters! Get your oysters here!

Water Cathedrals

Wind off the ocean. The thrum of the engine. All of it goes in an instant, in a shudder, a death rattle. Eerie silence settles on everyone. Suffocating. “It’s a tomb,” I say, but nobody listens. No one understands. “It’s a corpse,” I say, “And we’re inside its belly, waiting to be devoured.”

They ignore me. A machine can be fixed, they say. A machine is not a body. It can be fixed, it can be fixed. A prayer. But I know the truth and I leave them to their church.

Another death rattle. The water turns darker, darker, an inky blackness spreading out as the clouds come in. A biting wind.

The first out of the water is the crab. Or maybe it is a crab made of other crabs, I don’t know. It’s too big to be just one. Click click, it says as it passes by to the tomb. Click click, I say back. There are screams and the sky turns a little bit redder. Didn’t I tell them to leave? We are in a corpse after all and crabs like corpses.

Fish are more vicious. They come after, in all shapes and sizes. Long teeth, sharp teeth, teeth meant to tear. There’s not so much screaming now. The silence must have suffocated them, the people who thought this ship could be fixed. Machines can die too. The Titanic did. And now we are here too, all bones. Well, they are bones, but I am not. I left. Before the crabs, before the fish.

“It’s a tomb,” I say, but there is no one left to listen to me. So I swim away.

The final version of this piece was featured in Chapman University’s Calliope: Art and Literary Magazine alongside several other great pieces. Check out other issues at


petrichor (n.); a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather

We let the rain wash our sins from our hair and bring relief to sun-scorched tongues. Blackened grass bowed at our feet. Our hair whipped around our faces. The cold stung our cheeks.

You turned to me and said, “We are the queens of everything” and I laughed because it was true. Not for me, but for you, my queen of everything. I was just the humble servant girl in our little game. The one with big hopes and dreams who looked up to you and wondered if she would ever be so beautiful or wise. You caught me staring and smiled, just for a moment.

Then with eyes like gray storm clouds barely reined in, you looked up to the sky and you challenged Thor himself to a fight like only you could. He responded with claps of thunder, so loud I screamed and covered my ears. You had a smile on your face.

The rain ended. You held out your hand. I took it, feeling the rough pads of your fingers against my skin. We watched as the wind chased the clouds away and the sun came out, warming our soaked clothes. I remember thinking this was perfect. And I remember realizing how wrong I was months later when the storm clouds came back.

New Year, New Blog

update wallpaper
I meant to do this in January but time got away from me. Oops!

Last year was a tough year for me. I didn’t get as much writing done, especially the last half, and it really affected my mood. Not to mention, I lost complete and utter motivation for my novel. I tried to work on it only to find more problems than I could handle: plot holes, stereotypes, tropes… The list goes on and on. All of this led to me yelling, “Screw it!” and tossing my novel into the maybe later list. Even after I’d given it a few months, there wasn’t a creative spark. My novel was effectively dead.

But great news! I’ve made a turnaround this year and have started working on it again. It doesn’t have a name yet, but I’m very excited to start sharing more things about it on my blog as I go along. Keep your eyes out for updates!

I’ve also made some changes to my blog. With the new year comes a new theme and new content. I’ll try to update every two weeks or so, whether it’s novel-related, a new short story or poetry. Hope you like what I have in store!