Writing
“To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.”
--Allen Ginsberg, WD
Fiction
snippet of The Markus Deggary Situation
published in 2013's ISU Creative Writing Journal, Allusions
Sebastian Cooper strutted up to us. Right before he reached us though, he stuck his drum sticks in his back pocket. He tended to try to pass as a sex symbol, but failed horribly. He always wore shirts that paled out his skin and jeans that seemed to never quite fit.
“Hey, thought I lost you,” Sebastian said. “Good show, right?”
“We owned it,” Markus said.
“I can’t believe I messed up on Spastic Cat. I always mess up on that damn song,” Sebastian said. “Hey Karsyn, where’s that one chick? You know, the one that can’t stop eye fucking me.”
“Give up, Sebastian,” I said. “None of my friends want to bang you. They aren’t into douche bag drummers.”
“Why you gotta be like that?” He said, smiling. “You seriously think I’m all dick and no heart?”
At least thirty seconds passed. I wish there had been crickets.
“I notice the Citrus Listerine is in full swing tonight,” I said, completely ignoring his question.
Side note: Sebastian always uses Citrus Listerine—which sadly gets you laid regardless of how you look.
“That’s man scent, Kars. Man scent,” he said, strutting away in the usual Sebastian way.
“I’ll remember that next time I want a hot chick to screw me!” I said, laughing as I grabbed Markus’s hand and walked out of the venue.
published in 2013's ISU Creative Writing Journal, Allusions
Sebastian Cooper strutted up to us. Right before he reached us though, he stuck his drum sticks in his back pocket. He tended to try to pass as a sex symbol, but failed horribly. He always wore shirts that paled out his skin and jeans that seemed to never quite fit.
“Hey, thought I lost you,” Sebastian said. “Good show, right?”
“We owned it,” Markus said.
“I can’t believe I messed up on Spastic Cat. I always mess up on that damn song,” Sebastian said. “Hey Karsyn, where’s that one chick? You know, the one that can’t stop eye fucking me.”
“Give up, Sebastian,” I said. “None of my friends want to bang you. They aren’t into douche bag drummers.”
“Why you gotta be like that?” He said, smiling. “You seriously think I’m all dick and no heart?”
At least thirty seconds passed. I wish there had been crickets.
“I notice the Citrus Listerine is in full swing tonight,” I said, completely ignoring his question.
Side note: Sebastian always uses Citrus Listerine—which sadly gets you laid regardless of how you look.
“That’s man scent, Kars. Man scent,” he said, strutting away in the usual Sebastian way.
“I’ll remember that next time I want a hot chick to screw me!” I said, laughing as I grabbed Markus’s hand and walked out of the venue.
Snippet of The Art Of Losing Yourself
published in 2014's ISU Creative Writing Journal, Allusions
It had been two weeks since my parents’ passing and it was as if the scenes were going in an infinite loop in my brain. If I wasn’t having nightmares about that night; I was having nightmares about what could have happened, which were even worse.
I’d been lying in my bed staring at the imperfections in the ceiling for 20 minutes. I gazed at the light circles in the paintwork. The circles started to fade into little tires. That’s when I felt it. Water—in my nose, in my throat, in my lungs. I started blinking, willing myself to brush it off. The sensation of water clogging my nose started to make me gag. I felt like my lungs were reaching out of me, grabbing for oxygen. I popped up out of bed and reached over for my trusty piece of gum sitting on my bedside table. I slowly inhaled and exhaled.
You’re here and you’re okay.
After a few minutes of calming myself down, there was a small knock at my door. Charlie opened the door just a crack and I saw his bleach blond hair sticking out like a flamingo in a yard of lawn gnomes. I smiled slightly and motioned for him to come in.
“What’s up, little dude?” I asked.
“I wanted to show you something,” Charlie said, hopping up on my bed with his sketchbook. “I’ve been working on it the past few days.”
His small hands turned each page delicately. His eyes were still a little red as he didn’t really sleep much—always up doodling and sketching things. Finally, he turned to the page of the creation he wanted to show me. His big blue eyes looked at me, waiting and begging for a positive response.
“Well, buddy,” I said, nervously laughing. “What is it?”
“It’s a cat coat,” Charlie said, matter-of-factly.
“Did you just say a cat coat?” I asked. “You want to make a coat out of cats?”
“Long-haired cats are typically the coldest,” Charlie said. “The leaves are changing. Leopold will need a coat.”
A few seconds rolled by. Leopold, our fluffy monster of a cat, slinked through the crack in the door. Charlie’s legs dangled off the side of the bed as Leopold swatted at them. He took out his pencil and sketched in a few lines where blank spots were in both of the paw areas, looking at Leopold for reference. I looked at him with an expression of upmost confusion.
“You’re such a weirdo, kid,” I said, messing up his hair. “I like it though, let me know when you’re done with it.”
He just simply smiled and jumped off the bed. Placing his sketchbook underneath his arm, he slipped through the doorway.
published in 2014's ISU Creative Writing Journal, Allusions
It had been two weeks since my parents’ passing and it was as if the scenes were going in an infinite loop in my brain. If I wasn’t having nightmares about that night; I was having nightmares about what could have happened, which were even worse.
I’d been lying in my bed staring at the imperfections in the ceiling for 20 minutes. I gazed at the light circles in the paintwork. The circles started to fade into little tires. That’s when I felt it. Water—in my nose, in my throat, in my lungs. I started blinking, willing myself to brush it off. The sensation of water clogging my nose started to make me gag. I felt like my lungs were reaching out of me, grabbing for oxygen. I popped up out of bed and reached over for my trusty piece of gum sitting on my bedside table. I slowly inhaled and exhaled.
You’re here and you’re okay.
After a few minutes of calming myself down, there was a small knock at my door. Charlie opened the door just a crack and I saw his bleach blond hair sticking out like a flamingo in a yard of lawn gnomes. I smiled slightly and motioned for him to come in.
“What’s up, little dude?” I asked.
“I wanted to show you something,” Charlie said, hopping up on my bed with his sketchbook. “I’ve been working on it the past few days.”
His small hands turned each page delicately. His eyes were still a little red as he didn’t really sleep much—always up doodling and sketching things. Finally, he turned to the page of the creation he wanted to show me. His big blue eyes looked at me, waiting and begging for a positive response.
“Well, buddy,” I said, nervously laughing. “What is it?”
“It’s a cat coat,” Charlie said, matter-of-factly.
“Did you just say a cat coat?” I asked. “You want to make a coat out of cats?”
“Long-haired cats are typically the coldest,” Charlie said. “The leaves are changing. Leopold will need a coat.”
A few seconds rolled by. Leopold, our fluffy monster of a cat, slinked through the crack in the door. Charlie’s legs dangled off the side of the bed as Leopold swatted at them. He took out his pencil and sketched in a few lines where blank spots were in both of the paw areas, looking at Leopold for reference. I looked at him with an expression of upmost confusion.
“You’re such a weirdo, kid,” I said, messing up his hair. “I like it though, let me know when you’re done with it.”
He just simply smiled and jumped off the bed. Placing his sketchbook underneath his arm, he slipped through the doorway.
Poetry
Conversational Heartbreak
published in the 2013 ISU Creative Writing Journal, Allusions
We stood still, freezing.
Fragments of conversation coming out only
in puffs of snowy air.
“Don’t—”
“Remember—”
“me… but…”
“—I will.”
I aligned my eyes with your own.
Those burning eyes could ignite
an entire continent ablaze.
You huffed, allowing the air to spit
a couple of feet away.
I stepped away a bit farther,
I guess, to hear my heart break better
as you whispered,
“Sorry sugar--
It’s not you, it’s me.”
published in the 2013 ISU Creative Writing Journal, Allusions
We stood still, freezing.
Fragments of conversation coming out only
in puffs of snowy air.
“Don’t—”
“Remember—”
“me… but…”
“—I will.”
I aligned my eyes with your own.
Those burning eyes could ignite
an entire continent ablaze.
You huffed, allowing the air to spit
a couple of feet away.
I stepped away a bit farther,
I guess, to hear my heart break better
as you whispered,
“Sorry sugar--
It’s not you, it’s me.”
A Business Meeting
published in the 2014 ISU Creative Writing Journal, Allusions
Shut your mouth.
I know what those lips are capable of:
A mild distraction,
a badly worded interaction,
a $50 transaction.
Tonight, all I’m hearing is syllables.
I swear that you smiled
when I slyly hid “intimacy”
in that last sentence.
You’d never utter the word.
Not now.
You’re too focused with
being “strictly business”.
You used to be such a romancer,
an Argentinian Tango dancer,
my wonderful Caucasian cancer.
T.V. static provided background music
with a cheap cologne laying spread eagle in the air.
You cupped my face awkwardly in your hands
and blew slowly in my face--
saliva dotting my nose.
All I have to say is,
“Thank God for room service.”
published in the 2014 ISU Creative Writing Journal, Allusions
Shut your mouth.
I know what those lips are capable of:
A mild distraction,
a badly worded interaction,
a $50 transaction.
Tonight, all I’m hearing is syllables.
I swear that you smiled
when I slyly hid “intimacy”
in that last sentence.
You’d never utter the word.
Not now.
You’re too focused with
being “strictly business”.
You used to be such a romancer,
an Argentinian Tango dancer,
my wonderful Caucasian cancer.
T.V. static provided background music
with a cheap cologne laying spread eagle in the air.
You cupped my face awkwardly in your hands
and blew slowly in my face--
saliva dotting my nose.
All I have to say is,
“Thank God for room service.”