Below you’ll find a selection of my work, published, unpublished, even some drafts that I’m working on right now.
“Untitled” – Novel – Work in Progress
New Highlands no longer belonged to its residents. And when a town’s residents no longer have hand-holds on its shops and grocery stores, the spirit of the town belongs to tourists. The many, many tourists who find New Highland’s central pub “old-timey” instead of run-down. The many, many tourists who find character in New Highland’s cobblestone sidewalks, when just last year a group of liberal elderlies advocated for walkways that weren’t tripping hazards.
Quentin trekked upwards. He dragged his suitcase behind him and it rammed into his heels each time he conquered another upward step. His forearm was sore from hauling his luggage, but where he took notice of his tender muscles, he equally took pleasure in the simple act of carrying and knowing that, by doing so, he would soon reach a complete and logical end.
And the end was near. It came in the form of a lighthouse hostel on a cliff, with joint cabin houses fanning inlands and away from the edge. In these houses, guests could rent rooms and sleep in sturdy bunkbeds that had been nailed into the walls. There was no limit for how long guests could stay, but most got their fill of the coast by the weekend.
The newest building on the compound was the Keeper’s House, the closest one to the road. A bold WELCOME! sign propped itself on the front porch, though the house itself was otherwise unmarked and unremarkable. Its interior just as mediocre. A pool table wedged itself into the back room, while a TV played black and white static in front of sagging couch cushions. There was no reality gap between the exterior of the building and the inside. What one perceived was what one got. This comforted Quentin as he stood at the front desk, where a man scratched notes in a composition book. Thin-wire glasses perched on the man’s nose and through his lenses, the man’s eyes traced the length of a page. Clark, which was his name, paused when he needed, to take a note or reread a line, but he did not pause for Quentin, not even when he sensed the latter’s approach. In fact, the keeper, as was his title, mulled in his own work, purposefully, to see what Quentin would do. He had a shoulder-shrug investment in watching newcomers’ reactions unfold and he waited to see what kind of newcomer Quentin was.
“The Lion and the Huntress” – Short Story – In Progress
My hunting bow stretched across my chest. Its needle-thin strings bristled the soft flesh at my neck, rippling goosebumps up toward my scalp. I trudged forth to meet the elders, trying to ignore the way the moonlight descended on my bare arms. However, the moon flashed omens at me, and beneath it, the forest followed its reign. The leaves shuddered curses my way. Night black birds squawked evils to my family name. Lurking tree roots reached up to grope my ankles. In the shadows, I saw tombstones where none lay.
My whole life, I had wandered these woods. When I was a girl, I had romped through this land, my hands searching to know every texture that the forest had to offer: the sturdy bark of a tree or the sweeping sensation of a stray feather. I had waited to absorb all of the forest’s secrets, and in time, it had deemed me worthy. Then, one day, the forest had turned cold. Like a tremendous crash of boulders, it had shut me off from itself. Suddenly, I had become a stranger in my own home. The secrets that I had once treasured, were lost, gone forever to me. The forest, with all of its vastness and power, had bowed down to a greater force: the lion.
“Notes on Windsor Drive” – Published in The Storyteller Magazine – March 2014 Issue
It was almost impossible to conceive why for most individuals it came naturally to listen to the rough murmurs that donned the world. People turned their heads as a second nature to eavesdrop into the tainted conversation of others as if they had never heard such harshness. Their human interests would pique as they stopped to listen to others’ business and, in due time, they would lose themselves in others’ lives while forgetting their own.
It was also impossible to understand why for some people -like Jason- had a strong inclination to go against the stereotypical human curiosity by finding more enchantment in whispered tragedy rather than blatant opinions. Perhaps such people were too used to the severity and welcomed the difference willingly. Or perhaps, they were drawn to the beautiful things that usually went unseen or unheard.
On a hazy autumn afternoon, past the days of desired summer, Jason sat rotating around in his desk chair. He had already made the cycle three times without getting the least bit dizzy –once clockwise, then twice counterclockwise- before slamming his fists onto the wooden surface to stop himself. His head swirled from the abrupt change of motion and when he looked down at his algebra assignment once again, the problems looked more alien than ever. A groan emitting from his lips, he slouched into the back of his chair, flicking a mechanical pencil between his fingers as he did so.
By the orders of his parents, he was confined to his bedroom and chained to his desk until he finished his homework. At the progressive rate that he was going, prospects of escaping the four walls of his room seemed at an all time low.
Desperate for anything that might be of some use to him in his mission to abstain from the misfortune of high school homework, he had perched open the window in front of his desk to witness the glory of Windsor Drive. The rustling of leaves called to him in soft whispers of gleeful intentions. The air was filled with the specific scent of cinnamon and endless time. The sun hit the tree in front of his house at just the right angle so that when he looked upon it with ache, the leaves sparked and a display of fireworks burst in front of him in the act of temptation.
However, merely the art of autumn wasn’t the sole reason as to why he kept his window open despite the slowly chilling breeze that it had entailed. While the visual side itself was brilliant, the auditory part was far better –and Jason was not talking about the symphony of nature. No, Jason had discovered a greater secret to Windsor Drive, and he only needed to be patient for a while longer for him to be a part of it as well.
At four-thirty exactly, it began. He heard the squeaking of a window opening up; a whoosh of wind settling into a room like dog prowling in circles in its bed before resting. Then there was a soft sliding of wooden cases and a delicate sigh as if somehow relieved.
Shy plinking of a piano played like the pit-pattering of rain –its drops inconsistent as to when it would fall. Coming from the house next to his, the music started so quietly that if Jason had not been waiting for it, he wouldn’t have detected it at all. Already, he could feel himself slipping away from the grasps of reality, sinking deeper into the gentle playing of the girl next door whose music was sweeter than anything he had ever heard.