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The Girl on The Bottom of The Ocean

This is Girl speaking. This is a story inspired by an anglerfish who rose to the surface. It was completed February 2025, in the span of a few days, and then never looked at again. (This is actually the very first story posted on this blog, although it does not appear to be.) "In the trench, beyond the twilight zone, is a girl who longs for the above. She is huddling on a dust covered surface, the ashes of those who have been. Once, there might have existed others like her. Girls who found warmth in each other, even in the tightest of spots. She laments their presence, without ever having known them. “In the vastness of nothing,” she whispers to herself, “there is one who has been left behind, disrupting the peace of nonexistence.”  She moves her face towards what she supposes is upwards. Up there, in the mass of pitch-blackness, are droplets of bioluminescence, separating the obscurity of it all. The first time she ever saw them, these luminous beings of the abyss, happened to be...
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Little Mary

This is girl speaking. I wrote this story, but I am not entirely sure why anymore, or what it even is supposed to mean. Maybe someone out there will figure it out before me.  "Little Mary went missing on ice 3 times throughout her lifetime. The first time, she cannot recall. A third hand memory, delivered to her in after nine dreams. Past the witching hour, she would lay, braids tucked under the snow and flakes of words she never spoke falling. She told herself she would stay as long as she had to wait for something to feel, a tingling in her fingers or a stomp on her heart. Nothing ever came. The moon bore no witness as the wolves had gone to sleep, and their last remaining hope, a pup not even past two, down south. And the stars... the stars were counting all the little final breaths underneath her lungs, the fishes who had made it to the depths but suffocated under pressure. There was a strange calmness to the scene, a dying which she saw no need to fear. But, she woke up. ...
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On the Brink of Insanity in Greece

This is Girl speaking. I learned I was mad the night I sat down to write about my experience with being hospitalized in a foreign country. I was seated at the balcony, listening in on the crickets singing (or whatever it is that crickets do), and replacing it with the hushing between nurses who do not speak of the dead and the dripping. Oh, the constant dripping. Some might compare it to a tap someone refused to turn off, but I, yes, I saw it as a reminder, of borrowed time, of the fine line between driving to the mountains with a clear head and laying in a ditch as the rain drops on your scalp, one by one.  Drip, drip, drip.  The doctors were a whole other ordeal. Where the nurses were tender, the doctors were rough, loud, made it clear that no pain will go away just by not talking about it. They brought in their big, scary devices and did not once try to act like the sting would not hurt. They noted down the answers to the stupid questions that not even they listened to. And...
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Run Little Rabbit

This is Girl speaking. I detest what I am about to show you.  PART 1: The Shadow Little Rabbit sits across The Shadow at the dinner table. As a newborn, before she had opened her eyes, she mistook his horns, gnarled like branches, for the antlers of a deer. She reached for them with both her hands, just pure instinct. And, just like that, her faith was written, and with it, she died before she lived. This day, the birth of afterlife, is said to have been the first morning of snow, but also the first night of spring. She does not know which to be true. Her comatose body was taken to the basement before she got the chance to feel… the sprinkles of ice… or pollen… on skin untouched.  She does, however, remember the sunlight, stroking her ever so slightly, and then letting go.  His slender, tall figure rises above her, as he reaches for the finest of red wines, contained in a teapot. He pours her a glass, and she sips, just a few drops, but enough to paralyze her tongue. A sl...
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