Was I Ever Truly Whole
I promised myself I’d remain whole
Although I’ve fought it
Struggling to be an individual
Amongst misanthropic narcissists
Yet I remain whole
Even as cracks appear
On the periphery of my psychē
I continue to be whole
Perhaps I’m losing my mind
While hiding in the corner
Behind the asylum wall
.….As I lay here
.. .Thinking through the pain
.. .Writing down notes
.. .Attempting to stay sane
.. .I have kept silent
.. .Not ready to complain
.. .Hoping to create
.. .The sacred and profane
.. .No longer happy
.. .With just the mundane
But I’m still barely whole
Schizophrenia chases me
And paranoia whispers in my ear
The instability grows
I’m fighting to remain whole
I remember unpleasant experiences
Listening to the lunatic ball
Linguistic madness becomes apparent
My wholeness needs to persist
… .Demons wait for me
… .Lining up the cocaine
… .Regardless of consequences
.. .Flushing life down the drain
… .Reality is clear to me
… .I have gone insane
A hollow existence must be avoided
Along with formless desires
And vacuous excesses
I force myself to stay whole
Chaos is transforming my life
Nonlinear problems take shape
Creating massive ups and downs
I feel my wholeness slipping
… .I am neither here
… .Nor am I there
… .Not totally reckless
… .Simply do not care
… .Thoughts are convoluted
… .Yet I’m completely aware
… .Life could be a dream
… .Instead of a nightmare
Memories of childhood trauma materialize
Instigating shame and self loathing
My wholeness begins fragmenting
Am I going absolutely mad
Fatally infected as Ophelia was
Lunacy creeps into my seething brain
My wholeness has completely fractured
… .Trying hard to survive
… .Suffering is everywhere
… .Tucked in an alcove
.Or on the main thoroughfare
… .Outcomes are endless
… .Stress is beyond compare
… .You may not realize it
.But it’s psychological warfare
Emotional disturbances manifest
Accusatory glances from kinfolk
Suggesting maladies imaginaires
Even though family is the root cause
Was I fractured the entire time
Illusory feelings of wholeness
Fragmentary thoughts askew
Could each fragment be a whole
lanternflies
one time
i was walking
and i saw it
sitting there on the sidewalk
as if it belonged
and I couldn't quite believe my eyes
there it was, in front of me.
grey wings, black spots
red body, blue underneath
invasive species
that did not exist in this place
not according to the state
and I did what I knew I needed to
raised my foot
brought it down
bracing for the crunch
and it jumped, so
I had to try again -
success. the moth was no more.
and I kept walking
like a fool, almost proud
to have seen my first one
and sad to have had to kill it
because it'd been so beautiful.
then I looked up from my feet
and saw a dozen more
crawling on brick pillars
and concrete of the sidewalk
taking over the veranda
and I could not kill them all
because of what people might think
so I casually stomped two or four
more that were unlucky enough
to be within my reach of walking
stride. and pulled out my phone
to document the numbers for
the record to report the lanternflies,
the invasion, to the state
how could I have called them pretty?
now I saw through the façade.
they didn't belong here.
much like me, they would
wreak havok in environments
not their own, blow
through trees and disrupt cycles
of feeding, bring disease -
altogether, spell disaster.
they would become a plague.
they had to be controlled.
they could not simply stay.
they needed to go home.
like me, I realized.
I'd thought I this *was* my home.
but there's nothing here for me to find;
just death beneath a sole.
The cold breeze
The breeze is cold
as I watch the trees sway.
Just silence, taking in the
peace. The sky is cloudy.
If it rained, would it mend
my aching heart or the pain
I cause.
Silent I sit. Enjoying the peace. All I can think about
Is me holding your hand.
I'm breathless from the wind
lungs fill fast, while my heart
beats still. I love you. I always will.
The breeze is cold today
skies are Grey
In between all that
My love is red as my
heart beats in tune
with you.
Reflectors
Guilted reflectors
Stand face to face,
One salted with guile
One oiled in grace
Yet bearing each other
With the slightest of pace,
A stillborn empathy
Deposed from its place.
Each colored with
Obsequious aim
But bottoming out
In apathy grey,
With stilted tongues spilling
Raw words each can taste,
And each saving face,
Holdout egos
For the rainiest day.
Each like the rickety ship
Which bares
Her angular body
Of cracking groans,
An up stream fish
Once steady,
Now lost
Delivered to the inky rings
Whirling into nowhere.
Then-lost!
As it were
Captive again,
Chained to the sea
And lodged in its den.
To emptily glide,
On brackish water
And surging,
Swallow the screaming tides,
Twin heartbroken arrows
Aimless and shadowed
In darting pursuit,
To taste divine love
Not bittersweet fruit.
So love turns dead corners
Its beacon en route,
Its devil red wings,
Grown black
With death’s bruise.
But bandage the other
With Samaritan eyes
And in doing so,
The ship realigns,
Steadies her course
And now sails upright,
Guided towards glory
Graced with merciful might.
And we are the same
Far as I can tell,
For I can love you like heaven
Or hate you like hell.
And girded truth readies
Her halting heart whole
To mend all the broken
Bones of the soul.
The captor is captain
If each wants it to be,
And such lies the choice,
For love starved of need.
Forgive all their sins
And turn up cast down eyes,
And be still in the shelter;
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Captor or captain,
The wheel remains yours
And such is the choice
For each guides a course.
The ship ports at land
And tied to the mast
Is a tear written letter;
“I am home now at last”.
I Have a Plan
I Have a Plan
September 16, 2024
“The Pluvarians need to learn discipline. They have no right to resist the inevitable. All will kneel before the Emperor.”
“Lord Actin, how do you plan to overcome their formidable planetary defense system? No weapon system has penetrated it previously. You must have a plan.”
“Indeed. As we speak, I have ordered a bioweapon that clones all sentient life forms every 14 standard time periods. Every morning, across the planet, Pluvarians will awaken to exact copies of new Pluvarians. The copies will aggressively consume all food. Each day, the population will double. Each day, the food supply will halve. The old Pluvarians will be at constant war, a war for limited resources, a survival of the fittest. Our scientists estimate within five planetary revolutions, the situation of the ground will become critical. Within ten planetary revolutions, all Pluvarians will be at war with themselves. No one will remain to operate the defense systems. As long as we remove inorganic material, the crisis will remain permanently.”
“Lord Actin, how do you plan to occupy the planet?”
“I have a plan. It involves planet-wide sterilization followed by an aggressive terraforming of the surface and oceans. Pluvaria will remain. Pluvarians will not.”
The Crippled Bird Flew Las Vegas
She decided her exit was now.
She pooled every bookie’s psychic chicane,
Wiring a pennie’s weathered dignity
Just short of upselling her soul on loan
And traded stuttering fluorescent ictus
For steel wool sidewalk
Shaded corpse stewed blue,
Outgunned but not outfoxed
Now a morgue bound rogue runaway
And 21st century hall of fame femme fatale
Hunted for cutting strings long past due,
Exploding the neon eyed shark mafia
Who made chilled blood circle rounds,
Kicking beehive tantrums
Firing cap gun napoleon complexes
Gaining blood pressure points
And losing top dollar bragging rights,
To Diana, Orchid Of Diamonds,
Who played the Royal Flush
And drowned the surly back alley rats
As sure as hell is hot,
Her plain Jane train
Whistling ragtime victory tunes
Leaving Sin City’s glittering abyss
Choking on its black widow shakedown.
The desert’s cracked broom
Swept her heel traced steps
As a sand offering thrown to God,
And the hoodwinked rat ensemble
Were still floating
Bloated facedown
Last any of the atrophied city muscle
Had heard.
They say since the crippled bird flew Las Vegas,
She sells prime real estate in the Windy City
Plucks an out of tune guitar
Bakes tart lemon pies
And still plays a mean game of cards.
Last anyone knew.
Last anyone heard.
Novocaine Grey
Tragedies write themselves
Inking the busted gut slaughterhouse,
Mascara quill smears
Christening untended diaries.
Can you collect her drops
Or crimson spots?
Tragedies write themselves
Draining fangless rain
Page after thorn crowned page
Biting flayed skin dreams
Cauterising the saddened nerve.
Days turn novocaine grey,
We pluck out our engorged eyes
Scorning violators.
Signifying nothing (repost)
is yellow
really yellow
blue blue
am I me
are you you
can you trust
what you think
or what you think
you know
have faith in
what you see
be it sun, moon
or snow
is that a dove
at your doorstep
white wing
marred with red
clearly dead
left by the neighbor’s cat
whose backward curiosity
has left you with that
is it really there
can you touch it
do you dare
extend your finger
then tremble
as you watch it
disappear
a figment of
a growing fear
that nothing is
that nothing’s there
a silent scream
can’t pierce the air
your mind unravels
unnatural motives
of inception
a world unseen
full of deception
an alternate truth
that’s quite obscene
where death is life
and life is dream
and nothing
is ever
as it seems
it’s not a gift
it’s simply hell
a time and place
we needs must dwell
till the undertaker’s dream
we do fulfill
but
does such a thing as time
exist
can even place
subsist
beyond
the mind’s
embalming mist
that hides us
from the black
abyss
where night is day
and day is night
the dark is love
and hate is light
and Hate’s last breath
gives blinding sight
of man’s true fate
forever in an instant
there’s no plan
no intention
no blueprint
why carry on
when we’re
nearing the
end of days
oblivion
I think of scales
on butterfly wings
that iridescent hue
or musical ones
of a song you can’t sing
in a world you never knew
is yellow
really yellow
blue, blue?
Elesea in Dreams?
I hurl the entire can against the canvas out of frustration, splashing blood red paint against the floor and walls, crime scene style. This isn’t going the way I want. I need to check myself, so stop to roll a joint. No one smokes joints anymore, which is a shame. There’s something to the ritual of rolling a joint that’s as relaxing as the joint itself. I haven’t been able to paint anything in weeks and I’m getting irritated. I switch out my Cocteau Twins Pink Opaque for The Damned’s Neat Neat Neat. I need something more aggro. I briefly consider going next door to see if my neighbor has any blow, but decide to pop open another energy drink instead. Funny, all the sugar and additives in this gut rotting beverage are arguably worse for my body than a bump of coke. But nevermind that. How do I shake this creative block?
I abandon the project and take my joint down to the waterfront. That always calms me. It’s a gorgeous day, despite yesterday’s thunderstorms. Or maybe because of them. I normally produce my best work in the wake of turmoil, so I get it, I tell the universe. I find a place on the seawall to sit, extracting my earbuds so I can hear the ocean’s song. My Piscean nature compels me to the water when I need to self-soothe. I spark my joint and sit there smoking, watching the sun glistening on the water. I’m hushed by the collision of waves as the ocean exhales them onto the shore before inhaling them back into her depths once more. Slowly, the frustration begins to ebb.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs and holding my breath at the top. I count to seven before fully exhaling through my mouth. I need to carry this feeling with me back to the art loft. That’s the problem. It’s easy to get zen while I’m sitting here, near the ocean. Then I go back into the city and something inevitably fucks me up again. I suspect that’s how life is in the Olde Towne for most of us. We’re all scouring the city for these precious, borrowed moments of tranquility. The OT is feral. I never expected to stay here after my mother and brother were killed in a partisan rebellion. But then I found my chosen family, joined the underground resistance, opened the diner, and. Well, here I remain. I suppose it’s as close to home as anything else I’ve ever known.
Why can’t I just live in this moment forever? Why is serenity so difficult to hold on to? I sigh deeply as I look at my watch. I’m sure Owen is fine at the diner alone, but he always gets nervous if I don’t make an appearance by late afternoon. It’s understandable. Sweepers lurk in every gangway; beasts of prey. You never know when they’ll strike, and I’m mouthy enough to get pinched. Especially if I encounter a Sweeper who’s feeling particularly self-righteous. Technically, the diner is on neutral ground, at least in tacit terms. Even so, as female-presenting, I can’t be too careful. One could argue that women get it worse than non-white men. The black and brown men are simply shot or thrown over the wall. Women, well. I can’t contemplate that right now. Nothing will push me from my zen place faster.
I perform seven final rounds of breathwork, scanning each chakra along the way. My third eye chakra and pineal gland are ablaze. This baffles me. My third eye chakra is my creative center. If it’s so damned active, why can’t I paint? I scan again. My root and sacral chakras feel slightly misaligned. This gives me pause. The root chakra is connected to security, safety; feeling grounded. Am I blocked because I suspect something sinister is about to go down? Of course, there's another plausible interpretation: the sacral chakra is tied to sexual desire. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been feeling pretty ungrounded since Naddy unexpectedly cut ties.
Whatever, doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I stand and stretch. I thought we were clicking, even though we only dated for a couple months. We had tons of mind blowing sex, but we didn’t spend all of our time in bed. We spent many nights talking until dawn. If I’m honest, I thought we were both catching feels. Admittedly, I have the tendency to over-romanticize things, and Naddy is an unapologetic cad. Still. Her absence underscores how special, how seen I felt in her presence. I honestly don’t think I had expectations or an attachment to any particular outcome. I think I’m just annoyed at being so abruptly and summarily ghosted. I feel like I deserved at least a Well, that was swell, but the swelling’s gone down, so I’m gonna bounce. Or something.
I try to shake it off. I take a few more grounding breaths before I leave. I hope like hell everyone will Namaste the fuck away on my walk through the Olde Towne to the diner. Crap, I need to hustle. It’s nearly quitting time Uptown. Within the hour, the OT will be flooded with Uptown sex tourists and pleasure seekers galore. Especially considering it’s Friday. Owen’s a fine cook, but his neurodivergence doesn't lend itself to people skills. Plus, this misaligned root chakra business has notched up my spidey senses. Better to be in the safety of the diner if things do go sideways.
I stick to the waterfront as long as possible, but I’m eventually forced to move through the more densely populated area of the OT. Three early bird Uptowners are walking in front of me, talking loudly and occupying too much space. I roll my eyes and inhale deeply. I’m trying to stay zen here - can everyone fuck off a little? I’m hoping the Uptowners get distracted, allowing me a moment to circumvent them unmolested. I’m still wearing my paint splattered coveralls, which aren’t very flattering. That should work to my advantage. Out of nowhere, a man on the docks with a wide, entirely unsettling, shark-toothy grin waves, calling out to the Uptowners in front of me, encouraging them to join him. The three men excitedly trot off. I hope they don’t make their way to the diner later, but realize it’s an unfortunately grim possibility. Can’t worry about that now. I seize my opportunity to make it to the diner instead.
I don’t know if I’ve spooked myself, or if there’s legit evil afoot, but I shift into hypervigilance mode. Better safe than sorry. I arrive at the diner just in time. It’s busier than usual, and Owen is on the brink of a meltdown. The moment he sees me, he darts from the kitchen, grabs me by the shoulders, and pulls me in for a hug. He’s not big on physical touch, so I know something is way off kilter. Damnit. I hate being right about the wrong things. When I ask him what’s up, he has some difficulty articulating, but nods to the table in the far left corner. Sweepers. It’s clear by their Sears suits and sense of entitlement; so turgid it permeates the diner.
I look around and note that my regulars are stubbornly planted and ready to throw down. Stonewall style if need be. These are my people. And they’ve got my six, whatever may come. My heart swells with pride. I love my chosen family. It’s times like this when all uncertainty fades away. I know that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. Whatever that means, for whatever it’s worth. It must be worth something.
The Sweepers immediately start barking orders at me from across the room. I already want to punch the loudest of the three in the face. Namaste, motherfuckers. I motion at my coveralls and hitch my thumb toward the back of the diner, indicating I need to change, but will return in a jiffy. One of them grunts in disapproval, another grumbles something about the help, and the last makes a particularly inflammatory remark about needing to keep my kind in check. They’re just trying to rattle us, I remind myself; to keep us living in fear. Fuck. That. I think defiantly as I head to the back to change. I’ll choose dying on my feet over living on my knees. Every time.
I pop a xanax and a weed gummy before I head back to deal with the shit show. One of the Sweepers tells me I clean up real nice for an older broad. Un. Believe. Able. So we’re playing it like that, straight out the gate? Smiling with dead eyes, I ask what I can get them to eat. I try to choose my words carefully, to avoid invitations, but they find a way to work in Are you on the menu? nonetheless. I vomit in my mouth a little.
Miraculously, I’m able to maintain my plastic smile and reply, “I’m not on the menu, I create the menu. I’m the owner.”
But they already know that. They’re Sweepers. It’s their business to know who owns what in the OT. I tell them I’ll give them a minute longer to decide, then turn to leave.
The guy amongst them most bloated with privilege isn’t having it, “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you. Bitch.”
There’s an audible intake of breath, followed by tomblike silence from the other patrons. Snap, one of my most fiercely protective regulars, looks at me, raising an eyebrow. He’s ready to cut a bitch, even at his own expense. But that’s too high a price. I won’t allow it. I nod slightly, letting him know he can stand down. For now.
The tension in the dinner is palpable.
I turn, widening my plastic smile and reply, “I’m sorry. I think you misread my name tag. It’s Elle. You know, like the letter,” I trace an L in the air with my finger. The guy looks like he’s about to burst at his bloated seams when I add, “It’s ok, no worries. Words are hard. I understand.” My saccharine sweet tone confuses him. While he tries to work out whether or not he’s being mocked, I turn and walk away, calling over my shoulder, “Be right back with that coffee.” It takes every ounce of self control I have to stifle a quip about how there are pictures on the menu in case the words are too big. I’m already treading a thin line, I remind myself. Except.
Except I’m not certain I care anymore. I’m fucking tired of their intimidation tactics. I walk into the kitchen to get the coffee and notice that Owen has switched from meltdown mode to ranger mode. He was a ranger in the special forces, some lifetime ago. He lifts the back of his apron so I can see he’s packing. If the Sweepers so much as lay a finger on me, they're dead men. That won’t be the end of it, though. It will only be the beginning. But that’s where we are.
I focus on my breathing while waiting on other customers. I reassure them that everything is going to be fine. I also want the Sweepers to know I’m not intimidated. And I’m sure as hell not responding to Bitch. They can suck my dick. The Sweepers are growing agitated. They’re talking loudly about how a woman’s only purpose is to serve her husband and raise his children. Typical inflammatory Sweeper rhetoric. I want to pour steaming hot coffee on their crotches. If I do that, they’ll attempt to haul me off. Here and now.
Owen will get his gun, Snap his knife and, if any of us make it out alive, our days will be seriously numbered. The Sweepers will launch a full scale raid, hitting not only the diner, but the docks, the underground, even the art loft. It’s too many potential casualties to contemplate. I can’t have that much blood on my hands. I realize that I’m standing there motionless, coffee carafe in hand. The bloated Sweeper is talking, but his words are muffled by the sound of blood rushing to my head. I want to eviscerate this sack of filth. I try to focus on my breath. I can’t ground myself. My hands are trembling.
“Hey! Are you stupid too? You’ve got one fucking job to do. You forget how to pour coffee?
I can feel the diners holding their breath.
I pour the coffee onto his crotch and, as he shrieks like an absolute girl in agony and disbelief, I smash the carafe into the second guy's skull, then use the broken glass to slit the third guy’s throat.
I shake the fantasy from my head.
“Hello? I said pour me a cup of coffee. Now, Bitch.”
I am barely able to steady my hand as I pour his coffee.
“There you go. Was that so hard?” He asks, before leaning over and smacking my ass.
Owen jumps over the kitchen counter and is halfway across the diner when, like a hero from one of those old Marvel movies, in walks Sydney. I almost visibly sigh with relief, but I can’t blow his cover. He’s been working his way through the Uptown ranks as our covert for months, and we need him to stay embedded. Fortunately, Sydney is a quick study. He reads the room, and calls to the Sweepers excitedly.
“Hey, guys what’s up?” He doesn’t give them a chance to answer. If one of these morons so much as looks at me sideways, Sydney might not be able to hold it down, “You gotta come see this. There’s a pop-up sex show on the docks. They’re picking guys from the audience and taking requests. Shit’s getting real!”
The Sweepers are all in. As they gather their cheap suit jackets to leave, the most cantankerous of the bunch makes eye contact with me and says, “Let’s go have some fun, guys. Service here is shit anyway.”
When the door shuts behind them, the diner heaves a collective sigh of relief. Owen approaches and asks if I’m ok. He was ready to kill them all, I can see it in his eyes. He would have eliminated all three before the first guy’s body hit the floor.
Snap lays a gentle hand on my shoulder in support. “Elesea, them fools are getting bold with the wrong bunch. I promise you that!”
I can feel it now with certitude: we’re on the precipice of a bloody revolution. Do or die.
A few hours later, Sydney returns and tells me it’s all been taken care of. I don’t ask questions. He insists on escorting me to the loft. Once there, Sydney leaves to catch up with a couple friends. He offers to walk me home after I finish painting, if he’s still around. I don’t decline, but forewarn him it could be a while. He copies that and takes off to do his own thing. I am immensely grateful for him, for all of my people. My tribe.
I rip a couple bong tokes and put on Love’s Secret Domain by Coil as I mix my paints. I work furiously, completely losing track of time. After I’ve filled two canvases, I stop to survey my work. The first canvas is a depiction of the diner. Owen is bopping around the kitchen in his headphones, cooking. Snap is sitting at the bar with three of his ladies, laughing joyfully. A few other regulars litter the background, everyone eating and talking amiably. Comfortably. As if they aren’t anticipating a scene like the one that played out today to erupt into bedlam at any given moment.
The second canvas is a depiction of Tangos, the underground French bistro that hangs my art. Pierre, the owner, is there, his kind, round face smiling widely; like it’s Paris in spring. That’s the thing about people who have everything taken from them and nothing to lose: they find bliss in the unlikeliest of places. If they don’t, if they allow the enemy to crush their spirits, then the enemy truly wins. Once upon a time, a night like this at Tangos would have been taken for granted. People in the OT don’t take anything for granted anymore. Moments like these, with friends, with family, are all we have left.
The diner, Tangos; the places are inconsequential. These places aren’t my home. These people are my home. I look down. One empty canvas remains. I pick it up and place it on the easel. I start painting with abandon, surrendering to the vision. It’s come to me in dreams. I know why I have resisted it, but I no longer can.
Right on cue, the titular track of Love’s Secret Domain begins playing.
In dreams, I’ll walk with you. In dreams, I’ll talk with you. In dreams you are mine. All of the time.
I finish, breathless, spent, and stand back to admire her likeness. The severe black bob that frames her exquisite, strong jawline. Her long, delicate neck and jutting clavicles. The mischievous glint in her dark, green-gray eyes. Her Mona Lisa smirk that always makes me feel like the secrets of the universe will spill through her full lips right into the depths of me. I can’t deny it; it wasn’t a fling. We didn’t meet by accident. Naddy is part of my tribe. That’s how the story ends. Or, more importantly, that’s how it begins.
“Come back Naddy,” I whisper to her likeness, to the universe, to her. I know she can feel me.
“Whenever you’re ready. I’m here. Come home.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TITLE: Elesea in Dreams?
GENRE: Literary Fiction
AGE RANGE: Adult
WORD COUNT: 2956
AUTHOR’S NAME: Ane R Key
WHY IT'S A GOOD FIT: I've written a trilogy of shorts, each providing insight into one of three protagonists of my untitled novel. Each short stands alone, so can be marketed separately, or as a collection promoting the novel.
THE HOOK: Sweepers from Uptown scour the OT for women and non-whites, eager to imprison, shoot them. Or worse. What they don't realize is that Elesea’s tribe is ready to throw down, Stonewall style. The resistance is drawing near, but it is anything but futile.
SYNOPSIS: Elesea runs a diner that operates as headquarters for an underground resistance in the OT. She's formed a tacit agreement with the self righteous, morally upright Uptowners that their secret police, the Sweepers, will leave her diner in peace so long as they are able to carouse on the docks of the OT with sex-workers. As tensions mount, Elle rallies her tribe. Yet, one key player is absent: Naddy, a woman with whom Elle had a brief but intense affair. Realizing that Naddy plays a crucial role, both in her life, and in the revolution about to transpire, Elesea sends out a psychic SOS, calling Naddy home. Will Naddy answer her call in time?
TARGET AUDIENCE: Fans of both the Marvel and DC universes, as well as Neil Gaiman, Margaret Atwood, and John Burnside fans. People who enjoy stories of vigilante justice, revenge, and antiheroes. People who identify as non-binary, queer, or are otherwise disenfranchised. People who enjoy twists and creative, non-traditional literary fiction.
AUTHOR’S BIO: I am a queer, female-identified, feminist, anarchist, and creator. I am an educator, agitator, and fierce advocate of bodily autonomy and critical thinking. I am an avid reader, a polyglot; a lover of languages, literature, and learning. I have my BA in Philosophy and World Religion, and my MA in Education and TESOL. I am US born and lived most of my life in Seattle, Washington. I have also lived in Japan, Germany, and currently reside in Portugal, where I teach part time, and perform energy work, guided meditation and tarot readings part time. My free time is spent traveling, reading, writing, watching films, or at music venues. I am dedicated to the practice of yoga, and spend my time between embodied, meditative states of consciousness and liminal, disembodied spaces. I'm also the proud owner of the world's best travel companion, my dog, Chopper.
LITERARY STYLE: I create characters who challenge readers by defying traditional archetypes. I enjoy complex, interpersonal relationships, exploring, and subverting, concepts such as linear time, imposed paradigms, the patriarchy, and hetronormative assumptions. My favorite schools of philosophy are ontology and epistemology, and I find it interesting to weave threads of these philosophies into my work. I counterbalance these philosophical musings and reflections with rapid bursts of forward motion. I hesitate to refer to my work as plot driven as my first consideration is to the development of unconventional characters whom the reader finds inexplicably relatable. There is a fair amount of drug use and small measures of violence in my work, albeit none too graphic. Regarding drug use: there are far greater evils than drug use and, let's face it, big pharma and for-profit prisons are making a killing from the war against drugs. Rather than being gratuitous, I submit it as social commentary.
*Note: I am submitting the other two shorts, Samantha in the Red Dress? and The Devil in Disguise