Meet the Author

Meet the Author

I have a desire within me to communicate of basic human instinct through the written word. Perhaps I yearn a connection to people and can only find warmth in the relationships I have built with the imaginary characters that manifest in my mind….

Or at least that’s how I’d like to think I look at life. Pretentious and wordy. Smart and smart-assed all the while believing my own bullshit.

I write stories. That’s what I do. I create characters, scenarios, and plots I believe to be real in my own mind. Everyone does. When we are children our minds expand creatively to ways we couldn’t possibly dream now in adulthood. I guess I’m one of those children that never quite grew up. Hence, a fiction blog…

I don’t have the slightest clue what I am doing and sitting in my polka dotted pajamas with a bag of Cheetos in front of my laptop, I would find I am making great strides towards figuring it out. More than anything I want to take you into my mind. I want you to meet the characters my childhood self could never quite let go of- the very people I believe to be real.


Mermaid Tears: You Are What You Tolerate

Mermaid Tears: You Are What You Tolerate

“Never again will I justify the scars because I love the person holding the knife”

You are what you tolerate. It’s tempting to lick our wounds and feel sorry for ourselves when life deals us a shit hand. We relieve the pressure of accountability the moment we decide it’s someone else’s fault we’re miserable. People will only do what we allow and when we love someone, it’s truly atrocious the kinds of things we will allow them to do to us. We leave ourselves open to a world of avoidable heartache when we don’t fulfill our own sense of purpose, leaving the fate of our happiness in the hands of other flawed and broken people. There’s an old saying that if you put a frog in boiling water it will immediately try to jump out of the pot, but if you put a frog in lukewarm water and slowly turn up the heat, it will cook without even realizing it. And somehow we blame the frog. How convenient.

 I once loved someone completely incapable of loving anyone but himself. Slowly but surely, I allowed him to break me. I allowed small amounts of disrespect at first, trying not to seem too uptight or unable to take a joke. I allowed for less say in our home life as not to seem too prude. I allowed my privacy to be invaded as not to make him angry. I allowed the breaking of my spirit as not to lose him. I didn’t realize how unhappy I was until I was barefoot at 3am in a parking lot far from my apartment, and on the verge of a mental breakdown. My only option was to run. His powder white addiction had brought out his demons again that night and his rage had me cowering against a wall fearing for my safety. I allowed that too, and much more after that. When we don’t set strong boundaries, we  try to swim back and forth in a fish tank and pretend it’s the ocean, all the while convincing ourselves our misery is merely the price of happiness.


I dove into the water for the glitter at the bottom. You promised all the jewels I ever wanted if I was willing to swim for them. You encouraged me to be strong and keep swimming, even as my shoulders burned and my arms nearly became too weak to go on. Instead, I ignored the fear in my belly and stretched my fingertips further towards the sparkling allure of your promises. I nearly cut myself on the glass I found. There were no jewels here. Instead, I found myself in a pit of darkness, having left my light at the surface to prove myself to you. My love would never lie to me, of this I was sure. As I stroked my arms to lead me towards the surface, I found I was too weak to escape. I’d been holding my breath so long I’d forgotten I couldn’t swim. I tapped the glass expecting you to let me out. I would have panicked had it not been for the longing look in your eyes.

 I belonged to you.

Surely, you would never let me die in here. I had to be a good girl and wait, sit very still and wait, watch through the glass and wait, show my loyalty and wait. You were mesmerized by the hardened iridescent scales I spent months piecing to my skin to convince you I was something worth loving. I’d sown my legs together to be the mermaid of your dreams. As my breath pushed against my rib cage, I realized I had but moments before I could no longer breathe. I realized then that this was how you would love me.

I was so sure my love would never let me drown and never considered that you didn’t know I couldn’t breathe. Rather, that you didn’t care that I couldn’t breathe. And I sank towards my new home among the other shards of glass posing as diamonds.

Our love was me drowning with an ear pressed against the tank hoping to hear you say my name. Our love was my hand print on the glass waiting for the warmth of your hand pressing back. Our love was minutes and hours and days and nights of my aching loneliness anchoring me in the cold waters of the bottom. Our love was me believing that you must love me to keep me protected in this paned prison. Our love was my gratitude for loving you at a safe distance behind panels of glass. Our love was your trident of scolding words piercing my lungs when I tried to swim out.

Our love was how I blamed you for leaving me to drown when I gave up my legs to crawl to the bottom.

But it’s amazing how fragile your glass is when I no longer care about the way you love me and only care about how I love myself. How easily it cracks when I refuse to drown for your amusement. How incredibly inconvenient for you that I am a diamond disguised as glass.


Life is but your tolerance.

Lover in the Painting

Lover in the Painting

She looked at me when I stroked her hair in perfect brown oil. She was beautiful, curvaceous with lips like apples. A small dip of my brush gave her legs longer than the days I’d spent dreaming of her. The corner of her right eye was smudged slightly in the one place I’d lost my focus for just a moment. It was in that small moment I’d lost myself in the joyous expression nestled in her soft brown eyes. She was perfect.

Her lips began to part as if to say something to me. My heart nearly sputtered out of my chest, my breath caught in my throat at the beauty of her hesitation. The ballerina cradled her reddening face in two small hands.

She reached a slender finger away from her face and towards my brush which hovered just on her hairline. I was unprepared for her girlish smile when she tapped a fingertip to the hairs on the brush. Had I heard her laugh, I may have tried to fall into the easel to be with her. A gentle stroke gave her flowing chocolate hair in a precarious bun atop her face heart shaped face. Curious, she followed each line as I made it, her cheeks ablaze and her smile deepening. Her eyes flitted to the other blank canvases behind me. She galloped away.


I ran to her side, following her chasses and turns in awe. She flitted from easel to easel with grace swaying her arms about. I ran to her stumbling over wooden stools and old paints to see where she may have gone next. I found her hiding in the easels just above my window, the sun bathing her in morning light I hadn’t even noticed until now. Just a wink and she flitted off to my sketchbooks. The pages came to life, flipping one after another as she danced across them. Her laugh was infectious. She galloped with ease and jumped from sheet to sheet.

She paused suddenly and turned her brown pools and rosy cheeks to meet my gaze. I hadn’t noticed until this very moment I had been holding my breath. She reached out a delicate hand to me. My quaking fingers inched towards the paper, yearning for a small touch. I found myself in the notebook at her side, my hands reduced to ticks of charcoal strokes. She placed her hand in mine and together, we ran from page to page, canvas to canvas, nearly missing the water spots ahead of us where earlier I’d become frustrated with my work.. We danced- or rather, she danced circling around me in giddy turns and strides. But she found her home in her easel. My work was completed and it was time to part ways. All too soon I found myself on the outside of her world, always looking in and longing for her love. I was shut out, trying to tap fingertips of canvas to feel her joy once more. She was all oils and paper again, leaving a melancholy ache in my chest. But her smile always reminded me of what I had. I always had her. Always had the dancer in the painting. My lover in the painting.  

The Robbery

The Robbery

I’m not sorry. That’s what I’ll tell the overworked police officer when he shows me the evidence he has on me after this.

I’m not sorry. That’s what I’ll tell the judge when he tries to lock me away for the crime of wanting what’s rightfully mine.

No, I’m not sorry.

I’d like to say I was anxious for what was to come, but my nerves were steely, my hands stone steady inside my black leather gloves. Given the circumstances, you’d believe I was a hardened criminal without a trace of humanity in my body. Maybe the second part of that impression was accurate but I was not a criminal- unless, of course, you count the social rap sheet I sported. In my life I had the audacity of being born poor and healthily melanated. To add insult to injury, I had an extra X chromosome and a human oven between my legs. All injection worthy offenses.

I wasn’t the only one with a hefty record, though. I was part of a team who’d banded together specifically for this night. If one of us was going to commit the perfect crime, she’d need the perfect accomplices.

Red One, who sat in the passenger’s seat reapplying her foundation, was born with parents who were only visitors here. They nearly gave her the chair for that offense. Red Two, polishing her aluminum bat in the back seat, made friends with the wrong people. Johnny and Jack were always there to show her a good time but weren’t too kind to her when she’d resurfaced from her blackouts and found she’d lost her home. To her left was Rookie who liked to dabble in games where she could play with her own team. She hadn’t been caught yet, but soon enough the closet she lived in would get a little too small. She’d be sentenced to life for that one.

No, none of us was sorry.

Can you blame us for pulling up to the curb at 3am, waiting to act on the small window of opportunity? One that we groomed each other to seize? All that was left now was to play the waiting game.

Wait. Start the car and bring it to a low rumble. Low beams on. Wait. Turn on the radio.

That’s not for you…

Turn the dial

Isn’t that a little ambitious…

Turn the dial.

That’s unrealistic…

Turn the dial yet again

You’re not talented enough for that…

Every station plays the same song.

Cut the music.

We had a few stops to make tonight and this was the very last one. We’d run up on our self-doubt, invaded the home of our fears and dumped them in the trunk of our beat up self-esteem issues. We’d dump the car later. It was only extra baggage.

I heard her short breaths behind my neck. Rookie was nervous. This was her first time and like any first-timer, she brought her self doubt along without taking the slugger to his temple like I’d told her. Said she didn’t have the stomach.

Rookie mistake.

Wait. Spot check exit points. Polish aluminum bat. Reapply foundation. Wait.

See, the rookie’s self-doubt didn’t go quietly. From the trunk, it sent muffled whispers in loving insults disguised as “mother”, “lover”, and “friend”. Poor girl was shaking in the back seat, making a habit of wiping her upper lip and brow every few seconds. But she told me she was ready and I wanted to believe her. She’d have to get herself together soon. It was time.

The plan was simple:

Set timer to two minutes. Cut engine. Mask on.

We sauntered our way to the massive double doors. Bats in hand, we were unbothered by robust chains on the handles. If we wanted opportunity, or any resource for that matter, we’d have to fight for it and keep a slow swagger in our steps as we showed up to claim it. One swing for practice and another to break the windows. We were a force as our army blazed the lobby. The faces of our hostages all looked the same, frozen in an expression of collective disgust and offense. Good. Stay mad.

No security or weapon could take us out as we stormed across the marble floors towards the safe. The funny thing about having such a notorious social rap sheet is that it basically makes you bulletproof. We quickened our pace, sprinting full speed towards the steel safe.

Only 45 seconds left on the timer. No more waiting. Black bag in hand.

We filled up the black bag with all it could carry. Rookie finally found her stride, slinging a black bag over her shoulder. Brute force seemed to be the only option against us, but a bat to the face can slow just about anyone down.

30 seconds left.

Make a quick escape out the back door.

Flip the pages and run my hands along the binding. Freedom in a leather hardback.

Forget Me Not

Forget Me Not

Trust the process. It only works if you allow it to. Trust the process, and the pain you feel now will be a distant memory. Trust the process. Adam had to keep reminding himself that beyond the automated doors in front of him, there was a chance he’d get to be normal. He couldn’t help but fidget with the clear band around his wrist with his name in bright holographic letters. He’d given every dime to his name and waited his turn on the ever expanding wait list for this. Tomorrow, he would be Sgt Harfield and the memory he held so close would disappear.Trust the process, he thought.

The blinking LED screen warned him he had less than 5 minutes before his appointment. He’d only heard rumors about the process and very few people who experienced it ever spoke of it again. Adam wanted to worry about the repercussions of his his mind kept picking at the same scar he’d gone into poverty trying to heal.

“Mr. Harfield?” he looked up at the attendant, a bit disgruntled.

“Ma’am,” he said

“I will see you now.”

He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. The bouncing  red ringlets springing up and down the attendant’s back kept his senses occupied as the two passed a  narrow passageway. At the end of the hall was a small room spilling over its brim in white lights. The space was only occupied by an all white recliner chair and a small table with a glass of cobalt blue liquid.

The nausea rolled through his stomach as Adam recognized the glass. Those brave enough to speak of the procedure always mentioned the blue glass that changed everything for them.

“Please have a seat,” the attendant said, forcing Adam to pry his stare away from the crisp glass. He sank into the frigid board of a chair he was given and awaited instructions. After a few moments of scribbling notes in her clipboard, the attendant spoke.

“My name is Penelope. I am version 9.2 of the NXJ android model and I am here to transition you through the process as efficiently as possible.” Adam blinked rapidly. He’d heard stories from his great grandfather about these beings and all of his great war stories defeating them, but he’d never come across one in his life.


“The process,” she continued, “ lasts approximately 45 seconds and is 9 times safer than automobile travel, 11 times safer than most dental procedures and almost as safe as conventional oven use.” The droid paused, smiling at him with a blank expression in her eyes as if waiting for something.

Adam let out a sharp breath behind his half smile.

“That’s very funny ma’am,” he managed.

I guess they added a humor feature to make her seem more human- IT more human, he corrected, internally hating himself for the slip.

Penelope  reached over to his wrist and took his vitals.

“Are you certain you would like to continue?” He’d heard the questions before. At each stage of the procedure you had the option to change your mind. Adam clenched his jaw and responded, “ Yes, Ma’am”

“Vitals are within the normal anxiety level for specimen.” Penelope stuck two small patches to his temples. “We will proceed to phase one on the procedure. Please consume the liquid,” she gestured to the glass. Adam hesitated but took the icy drink in his hands. It tasted like nothing going down his throat and he felt no different afterwards.

“The following procedure,” the droid continued, “ will delete all emotional attachment to the selected memory. As previously discussed, 3 emotionally charged memories will also be extracted from the specimen to reach optimal psychological, emotional, and neurological equilibrium.”

“Yes Ma’am. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I think I know which ones I am willing to trade.”

The fine white skin of her forehead wrinkled.

“Confusion detected. The memories extracted are not the choice of the specimen, rather a choice of the algorithm. The algorithm programmed will select the memories to be extracted as it’s design is flawless, its coding unmatched by any technology in the field. After this point, all decisions will be made final and the procedure will begin. Do you wish to continue?”

Adam went stiff in his chair, his heart began to race deep beneath his ribs. Without any permission of his consciousness, his eyes gravitated to the glass on his left.. The beads of sweat across his brow rolled in cool strokes down his temples. His limbs went limp with the weight a a freight train. A flood of images overwhelmed him. Every Christmas and New Years in his memory raced past his very eyes. He thought of his very first time going hunting with his father and how excited he was to finally be old enough to tag along. He could see every trip to the valleys his family took every year. The meeting of his wife…. The green blouse she wore on their first date at the ice rink wrapped itself over her milky skin. Her wine red curls lost themselves in the silk fabric…. The birth of his daughter…. Every gap-toothed giggle… every swear word uttered behind the pout of her pink mouth.. Every breath…. Every counted breath….

“Stress levels above normal,” Penelope said, somewhere distant from Adam. “Do you wish to proceed?”

Adam had made his choice.

For All the Fat Girls

For All the Fat Girls

This one’s for the fat girls…
For the girls, like me, who have had people poke their nose on our plates. This is for all the girls who’ve had people judge our lives like we put out an ad on craigslist for a second opinion. This one’s for the girls who would rather chew glass than go shopping because of how hard to find something that actually fits. I’m talking about the 38 DD and bigger, size 16 and sexy club. I’m calling out to all my “smile politely and endure unsolicited dietary advice from a stranger” fat girls. That’s right! It’s a roll call for all the stretch marks and cellulite fat girls. The not so tiny tummy and thunder thigh fat girls.
This is for all the ones who, like me, have heard all the criticism before- in both whispers behind our backs and  in front of people we know. I’m speaking up for all the “try to take a joke as your grandma critiques your weight at Christmas dinner” fat girls and the “get asked condescending questions when you eat” fat girls.
Because, you see, I’m no average fat girl. This fat girl has an answer for all of those pressing questions.
Question:“Isn’t that a lot of food to be eating?”

Answer: Isn’t that a lot of your business you should be minding?

Question: I’m worried you’ll catch diabetes

Answer: You should be worried about catching these hands

Question:“How does sex even work with you?”

Answer: Ask your man if you need a road map.

See I’m different breed of fat girl. I’m the “put you in our place” type of fat girl. I’m a “take no shit” kind of fat girl. Just ask the poor turd who tried to Snapchat me eating while he and his girlfriend laughed at me. Poor thing didn’t have a drop of color in his face or a pea shaped ball in his sack when I got in his face. That’s right, I’m standing up for ALL the fat girls. The “put a pillow on my lap when I sit down” fat girls, the “I love this game but won’t play” fat girls, the “take a selfie from the neck up” fat girls, the “you’re cute for a big girl” fat girls and especially the invisible “who’s your friend?” fat girls. I have been all of these fat girls at one point in my life. I was even the “don’t eat in public” fat girl once.
This one’s for my fat girls who know what it’s like to be insulted with “tough love”. With the rising epidemic or heart disease and diabetes, you can’t blame people for wanting to help. But let me tell you why the “tough love “ act does more harm than good. Loving your body is a journey. For all my depressed fat girls and my genetically predisposed fat girls you know what I mean. Don’t you think we’ve tried the low carb diet? The Zone diet? The south beach diet? The “it’s all about self control” diet? The not eating after 7 diet? The only eating fruit diet? The eating absolutely nothing diet? The eating everything in sight then throwing it all up diet? Believe me, we’ve tried. The one underlying factor in each of these is self-loathing and trust me, we don’t need anyone’s help to get more of that. This one’s for my insecure fat girls, who have been yo-yo dieting since the age of twelve. I’m the type of fat girl that will eat my Lorenzo’s extra cheese slice with a classy finger in the air for anyone with even a breath to say about it. This is a call to action! II want every fat girl to be:
The “turn heads when I walk” fat girl
The “I’m not pretty for a big girl, I’m pretty period!” fat girl
The “vivacious and lively” fat girl
The happy fat girl
The unapologetic fat girl.
Love yourself enough to be happy. Love yourself enough to be healthy. Most importantly, love yourself no matter what anyone says. I’ve learned this in a very hard way. It’s why I will forever be proud to be a fat girl. A curvy, thick, slick- mouthed fat girl.

Anybody wanna buy a heart?

Anybody wanna buy a heart?

She passed the fragrant smells of cheap perfumes and diamond dreams. The thrifters and salesmen of the market buzzed past her in negotiations as she neared the dingy wooden table in the corner of the booth. She padded the footsteps that wheezed out of her scuffed shoes, black bag in hand filled to the brim with hope that this would be the week she would sell her most valued possession. The usual pleasantries were exchanged between her and her neighboring stands. The conversation kept closely to the topic of weather and avoided the obvious darkening rims under the two chestnut traitors spilling over her fears down her face. She is patient. She has no more fear of the hours soon to stretch past her. Her frail hands reach into her black bag with barely enough strength to lift the glass jar out of it. She’s given up trying to display her possessions as her fingers, with nails chewed to the bed, had no strength to wrap around the lid. Her stone body sat still, head hanging low as she was unwilling to watch the hands one after another pass her by.

Closed fists with knuckles white from their turn in the jar, squeezing, bruising, crushing, bleeding her dry.

The few hands that took pity and pried her open only left but few cents behind for all her troubles. At first the hands were generous, leaving one or two gold coins. Eventually, the bruises blackened her only good to offer and copper coins rang against the wooden table much more often.

Who would want something so bruised? Who would want her damage?

She snatched her heart in a jar off the wooden table, clutching it close to her chest. This was hers. Bruised and beaten as it was, her heart would no longer be subject to the buyers negotiations. If nobody wanted to buy a heart, it would no longer be for sale.

She couldn’t take anymore and was near her emotional end when he walked up to her table.  He tilted his head for a moment, eyes locked on her face. Reaching deep in his pockets, the stranger left all the gold he had. His eyes flooded with hope, but her fingers clutched her jar close. She stared back with her chin pointed forward and her arms clutching the jar. Her eyes were steely, her mouth set in a hard line. He frantically checked every pocket and crevice, his eyes mouth twisted downward, and cheeks flushed. A pocketful of lint, two more coins and a rubber band later, he’d met his wits end with a sigh. Shoulders slumped, he reached into his black bag to pull out a jar with a heart inside the size of a dying rose petal. Blackened, and in shards, the barely beating heart was bloodless with promises bought but never received.  He left the jar on the table and began to walk away.

She stood, hesitant at first but presented him with her jar.

“Wanna buy a heart?”

Who can blame Irma….

Who can blame Irma….

The funny thing about Florida is that it only really has two settings when it comes to whether: Hell hot or hurricane. Today seems to be masterful combination of the two as we await for Irma’s arrival. Kind of makes you long for the old Florida before the madness. Just a few days ago, there was no breeze but plenty of sunlight- sunlight that would gladly remind you that nothing is safe from the 90 degree heat. The air is humid, moist and a bit hard to breathe. It makes you feel like you’re finally suracing from deep under water, only to shut you down and sink you five feet further. Florida. A place where it rains on one side of the road and not the other, where it pours for literally 5 minutes then blesses you with sunshine for the rest of the day. What a bitch. She makes you think she’s doing you a favor by giving you sunshine, but really it’s a cruel way to heat the air she has already moistened and made difficult to inhale. What a bitch. Maybe I’m a pessimist who doesn’t like sunshine or flowers. Actually, I am in fact a pessimist who hates sunshine and flowers. But before you gather the mob and pitchforks allow me to explain. I didn’t want to be here. Ever. Florida seems to have an alluring nature about it that never quite appealed to me. Most will ignore the flying roaches, mother nature’s mood swings and the bloodsuckers with wings in favor of Disneyland and vacation homes. Let us just ignore the fact that Disney is overrrated and unnecessarily expensive and that the US’s largest pedophile population resides in the sunshine state.

These things aside, truly the weather only bothers me for one particular reason. It is too personal. Even mother nature weeps violently in the summer months, tries her hardest to cover her sorrows in sunshine. She licks her wounds in glowing light to compensate for her human moments. She only makes things so much worse.  In her Fall months she whips and howls along the coasts and warm waters of the ocean. Destruction and terror are her only path as she hides her pain. She is ripped of her resources, leaving scars in her body only to continue to care for her abusers. She is left bled dry with gashes on her skin. It sounds too familiar… maybe I’m just overthingking things. I suppose I cannot blame Mother Nature for her cries. Maybe we’re too much of the same. What a bitch.


No More Prey

No More Prey

Sometimes…. I just want to be like you

I long to be like you

Unbothered with the burden of breathing

Unbothered by the effort of living

I long to be like you.

I long to escape my own mind.

I long for the silence normality would bring me, sweet solace in the emptiness of emotion

I long to break the cold embrace my thoughts constrict me in

I long the luxury of keeping you at bay so this monster is unable to wrap you in its terror

All i want is for you not to see and for me not to live it

I could scream and claw myself away from the tundra, breaking fingernails to crawl out of my own skin

I long the sanity of the sleeping of my demons, may they rest eternally

I long for the darkness to be gone, for my mind to remain strong

For the deepest corners of my mind to empty out its horrors so I may be at peace

I long the warmth of happiness effortlessly felt

For dreams of candy sunsets and nightmares chased away

I long for no one to be wrapped in the siren of my sorrows as they rip from themselves away from us

And I…. Only I remain it’s humble prey.


Haven Says: Safe Sex, Paychecks

Haven Says: Safe Sex, Paychecks

When you’re a twenty something year old woman, the world has a funny way of telling you what the next step in your life should be. It seems that your sexuality is always up for a new marketing strategy. Can you be kind of slutty if I have an education? Is it more acceptable to wear fishnets if you have a law degree? Should you be very conservative and avoid scandal altogether? No. Don’t think too hard. Just stay pretty and let the experts tell you how you can be desirable.

A room full of eager faced interns, ready to make a good first impression on the boss await anxiously in a conference room. You stand naked on the massive table waiting for what is next to come. You find yourself surrounded by faces named “mom”, “teacher”, “pastor”, and “friend”. A stout oversized man walks through the door, cigar in hand and a mean mug on. You’re the product. You are only valuable if others think you are. So what’s the tagline? What’s the slogan that will attach the most amount of value on you as a woman?

  • “Modest in life makes a good wife!”

What genius! Because clearly if you practice modesty you’re aiming to be a good wife one day. The correlation is undeniable. Let us ignore your own ability to choose. Not to mention that if you’re not modest, you don’t care about your husband. Noted.

  • “Sex for him, at his whim”

Another strike of societal genius. Alas, there is a strict guideline to establishing your value, and sexual deviance is not allowed. It is imperative to your value that you only practice acceptable forms of sex in a relationship or in marriage. Your own sexual drive or urge is nonexistent and only exists if “he” wants it. It must ALWAYS exist if “he” wants it. Let’s disregard that he too has self-autonomy and doesn’t always want it. It is vital that no one find out you are following this rule. Keep a pretty face in public and give all you can. What he wants, whenever he wants. Dually noted.

  • “Vanilla givings, happy living””

The golden rule! You are only allowed a small spectrum of acceptable sexual behaviors ONLY within the parameters of a marriage or committed relationship. You are allowed no urges of your own, or plastic/glass friends in your nightstand. You are not allowed to be sexual outside of the predetermined circumstances. Let us once again disregard the magic of becoming your own personal DJ or the curiosity of having “shes” instead of “hes” take the role of the guest star.


It doesn’t matter that you stand two feet away from them. Your life and future are for sale. You are naked. You are silent. You are completely uninvolved. You must stand still, smile and await judgement. You will not be wanted by the public if I’m not in the right packaging and as long as you do exactly as the slogan says, you are valuable. So you stand silently, awaiting their brilliant marketing expertise on what will make me worthy. As if what you choose to happen between your legs has anything to do with the fact that you are a person worthy of respect. As if the only merit you have is to be seen as desirable. Well here are a few slogans from yours truly.

Haven says:






It’s amazing that the concept of sexuality as it pertains to you is a conversation that includes so many people. A dialogue when it’s meant to be a monologue. Let’s not be unreasonable. The opinions of others count. They just won’t dictate my life until those opinions pay to keep my lights on.


SilverFang Episode 10: Sink or Swim

SilverFang Episode 10: Sink or Swim

I flailed my arms as the ground quickly approached me. My stomach sank with every inch I drew closer to my death. Instinctively, I shielded my face with my forearms as I awaited impact…

Impact that never came.

Instead, I sliced through the surface of frigid water. My elaborate Solstice shawl cocooned itself around me, weighing me further towards the bottom. The freezing temperature shocked my body into a temporary standstill. I struggled under the pressure of waters so deep, begging my limbs to allow me to swim. I fought my way to the surface, ignoring the numbness running from my fingertips to the rest of my body. I kicked; I flailed; I swam with all my might. Just as I felt I had no breath left in my lungs, my head broke the surface of the waters.

I gasped, grateful for the air entering my lungs. I coughed violently as the water pushed its way out of me. I was so cold and so afraid, all the while confused at my improbable survival. My legs grew weary as they struggled fought the weight of my dress. As I struggled to stay afloat, I saw an edge to the waters just off to my right. Water poured in from aqueducts, creating rushing tides in the massive pool. The last bit of strength my body had pushed me towards the stone edge. My breath was ragged, and my vision was only slightly better than before. I laid my cheek on the cool granite, hugging it closely to my chest as if I would fall of the surface of the earth if I let go. As I looked up, I saw a massive statue of Mother Earth. She was naked and powerful in all of her glory, bent at the waist and weeping as she reached towards the water. I’d fallen into a sacred basin and tainted Her waters with my blood. If the Mother wasn’t watching over me before, she certainly wouldn’t be now.


I found the feeling in my arms again and pulled myself out of the basin, finally realizing that I had never left the cathedral. The prayers and scriptures were finely etched into the stone walls of the sacred room. The orbs illuminated every corner in their soft yellow light, creating a reverence in the tomb. I didn’t know much about religion, but I’d heard the stories of how the world supposedly had come to be. The Mother mourned as she had lost her only son and cried for seven days , creating an ocean. She rose above her pain and took the salt from her tears to craft a world of new beings she could call her children. Her vulnerability poured from her eyes, flooding the basin in deep waters. Most would find comfort in an all powerful being. But there was no comfort here.

My attackers wouldn’t be far behind me, and I had to make an escape. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get far in my condition; I was running out of options. My immediate reaction was to run in any direction as fast as I could. I dragged my lead body to the grand double doors of the prayer room.

As I touched my fingertips to the cool wood, I realized that I didn’t have the strength to open them; I didn’t have the strength to do anything. The fog in my head was thickening, and I could feel my limbs weighing me down. For the first time tonight, I felt  I might actually die. My hands shook as I fought my body to respond. I was desperate to find strength where there was none to get me through this night. I leaned my back against the stone wall as my legs began to give out from under me. I tilted my head towards the Mother. I had never spoken to her, mostly because I didn’t quite believe she listened, but I was willing to try anything for a miracle.

A pound at the door made me flinch. Sheer panic washed over me. There was nowhere to run. Another brute thud came from the double doors.  I let my fingertips stroke the carved prayers along the stone wall, bracing myself for what was to come. I felt the hum of my magic flicker, and with it came my last bit of strength to fight for my life. I couldn’t be sure how much longer I could hold out, but I had to try. I mustered my last bit of energy and burst into smoke. I could feel the grain of the stone scrape between my cells as I disappeared into the wall. I could only hope I could hide better than I could run.


Perfume Sale!

Perfume Sale!

My pessimism should be extracted, collected and bottled up to be sold to the masses. Honestly, the amount of disdain I had for all of the foolery I put up with in life could have launched an entire fragrance line. It would be sold in major department stores nationwide and the blond lady in an all black power suit would be ecstatic to sell it (just like the employee handbook says). Her plastered smile could nearly shatter her face as she works to earn her commission and entice you to buy.

“Oooo, good choice,” she’ll compliment as you waver your eyes towards a hot pink bottle on the lower shelf. “That one’s a little strong. It’s called ‘Who the hell asked you?’ This one is more appropriate for formal occasions like when someone says what you should do with your body, or when someone is compelled to tell you how to live your life.” She’ll laugh delightedly as she hands you the bottle for a test spray. Then she’ll lead you to the most expensive bottle that has been marked 40% off! She claims it to be her favorite of all!

“You’ll love this fragrance!” she’ll say. “ It’s called “Kiss my Ass”. This is the signature fragrance, made for all occasions.Suitable events include, but are not limited to: When customers at your job treat you like you’re not a person, when you’re bullied because of your looks, being told you’re not good enough, general doubt from your support system, and many more!”

Well Sharon, I think I’ll buy all of the bottles you’ve got. I’ll be very subtle, as I know that a lot of people are off put and often intimidated by such strong fragrances. I’ll start with a base coat of “I love me” and douse myself in a bottle of “Fuck it” just to piss them all off.


SilverFang Episode 9: The Phantom Pt. 2

SilverFang Episode 9: The Phantom Pt. 2

My breath was trapped in my throat. I was thankful the agony had ended, but I couldn’t be sure of what would come next from my captors. The side effects of the girl’s torture left me dazed. I peered over to the man approaching, not daring to make eye contact. He was still wearing his masque from the festival. As he removed it, his face held the same ghostly expression. It was as if the life had drained from his face, leaving behind a clenched jaw, broad lips in a tight line, and a haunted expression. I could feel all warmth leave me the moment his winecolored eyes fell on my face. I couldn’t help but feel as though he was looking through me- as if he was doing his best not to rip me apart.

“I don’t foresee anything in our way,” he said to the girl, his eyes locked on me. “We’re clear to move out.” His purple irises dissolved into auburn, and I could feel his once vibrant energy settle into a hum. It was evident by the change in his eye color that he was an oculus- a type of shadow user able to envision the future. If I so much as thought about getting away, he would predict it.

“But we were just about to play,” the girl pouted.

His eyes never left my face. I cowered away from his spiteful stare. “You can do that later.” He sauntered over to her, his gait aggressive as if to size up and intimidate every piece of ground he walked on. I could hear him murmuring to her, surely planning how they would end my life in a painfully slow way. I couldn’t imagine what they wanted from me. The only thing that was certain was that they needed me alive- at least for now.


My mind struggled to find logic in this situation. The phantom mentioned that they were clear to move out. So we should be leaving here soon, I thought. I couldn’t underestimate their resources. If they were able to stalk and corner me in public, then there was no telling what they could do in private. To no avail, I kept attempting to summon the tingly feeling of my magic. No matter how hard I tried, it was always just out of my reach.

I listened intently for any indication of what they might do to me. They couldn’t get too far with a body; that was for sure. If they were going to move me, they would have to untie me first. I would only have a small window to escape. Even then, I wouldn’t be able to fight them both off. My eyes darted around the room in search of options, ultimately landing my sights on the slate gray floor beneath my feet.

I could hear the heavy footsteps of the man coming towards me. I kept my head low, hoping to make myself small enough to be spared. He stooped down to meet my eyes, his brow furrowed and his face serious. His brute fists carried a delicate flower the color of blueberries.

“This is going to hurt,” he said. He placed his hand over my nose. As I gasped, I could feel the heat in my sinuses. I choked on the burning winter in my senses. A numbness fell over my throat and nose. Before I could scream, I was slumped over in my chair, barely conscious.hydrangea-419061_960_720

The world moved slowly, and through my tunnel vision, I could see his feet walking towards the girl. I couldn’t hear anything except the slowing of my heart rate. My only chance at survival was to listen to my instincts; however, that was proving to be a difficult task. I felt the cotton building along the walls of my head. The effects of the flower were quickly weighing me. I forced my mind to focus on something besides the echoes of their soft voices or the surreal melting of the colors I saw. The phantom reached down to steady my limp body.

The knife… I dragged my eyes away from the spiraling objects in my vision to the breast pocket of his cloak. Wait until she goes for the ropes… My subconscious was much more focused than I was. Grab knife… Sink… Run. My senses were overloaded by the simple act of tapping into my shadow magic. I was tingling all over, but not in the way I needed. My eyes rolled around, trying to steady the spinning room. I had to stay focused.

“Grab… SinkRun…” I murmured to myself. I felt the girl loosen the ropes around my wrists. My arms were too numb to put up a fight; they fell heavily to my sides. I knew this was my chance, but I couldn’t remember why. My mind was in circles trying to remember, and I could feel the warmth of my magic in my belly.  I kept my attention on my arms, trying to make small movements.

“Grab… Sink…” I muttered to myself. The girl seemed concerned over her new toy. The seemed irritated that she would care at all about my well being. I could feel his grip around my torso tense.

“What’s wrong, pretty doll? What do you want to say?” I could feel her cool breath on the nape of my neck.

Through the haze, I could clearly see the dagger shining in his cloak. My adrenaline ran high. The bit of focus I had left allowed me to remember my plan. I wiggled my fingers, testing my motor skills. As she came closer, my body awakened. My vision was steadying, but not by much. This was it.

“Hit?” she misinterpreted.

“Yeah,” my hoarse voice cracked. “You hit like a bitch.” I grabbed for the knife, immediately turning to black smoke. The knife sliced clean through her pretty porcelain skin as I sank through the floor.

Liquid Lead

Liquid Lead

I was kind and kind hearted, blind and unthwarted in my attempts to make this world a better place

But you made me.. This

You swallowed my light in the abyss of your lies

You engulfed me in fury and squeezed the humanity out of my lungs

You clasped my ankles in your misery and pulled me under your insecurity

You seized my vision and buried me deep below my happiness

You crushed me under the weight of your ineptitude

You left me for dead

You watched me extend my arms to the shores of a distant past

You let me panic and buck for a breath of freedom

You let the cold slither along my legs as the darkness wrapped itself around me

And I let you.

I let you inject your lead into my veins

I let you poison my thoughts

I let you sink me into venge and spite.

I let you pollute my shores.

I let you raise the tides and blacken the sky

I let you drown my spirit and my pride

I let you sink me into the abyss I’d never dreamed I’d see.


Silverfang Episode 8: The Phantom

Silverfang Episode 8: The Phantom

The dagger was firm in her hand. The girl with the violet eyes squatted down to meet me at eye level.

“Such an interesting little doll you are,” she repeated. Her doll was shifting in appearance. The milky skin melted under her new sun-kissed skin. Her once lilac eyes shifted to a deep auburn, and chocolate-colored curls cascaded down her back.

“She wants to play. See? She looks just like you.” Her eyes wavered downward. “Except, you have this pretty necklace.” She reached for the dog tags around my neck. Out of instinct, I jerked my chest away from her bony hand. I felt a sharp pang in my side. I’d nearly forgotten about my injuries.

“Very interesting,” she cooed. I felt the cool tip of the dagger pressed against my cheek.
She slid the dagger along my face and across my jawline, coming dangerously close to my jugular. My heart beat wildly in my chest. She didn’t cut me; she only cut a thick lock of my hair.

“I’ve never had a brown-haired doll before,” she said, tucking the lock of hair into her pocket. She looked at me, holding a skeletal finger to her lips. “That will be our little secret,” she gave a sinister giggle.



“Crazy bitch,” I murmured to myself without thinking.

The anger boiled out of her face. “Pretty dolls don’t talk like that!” she howled.

One punch to my right eye came, and then one to my stomach. I felt like my lunch would make a guest appearance, and the cracked rib from before began to throb.From her tightly pulled raven colored bun, she revealed a small needle. I didn’t get the chance to speak before I realized what she was doing. The girl hummed a softly as she began sowing the mouth of her doll. 

“We can fix you right up pretty doll,” she said. I felt my mouth close. My lips felt sharp pressure beneath them, as if the needle was worming it’s way through my skin. I felt the burn of the thread as she stitched my screams in my mouth. I bucked in my chair, desperate for sound to come out of me. I only heard my own muffled cries. Her slim fingers were surprisingly strong as they clutched my throat for me to meet her gaze.

“Do you see what you make me do, pretty doll? Now I have to punish you!” She cradled her doll close to her ear with the other hand. “What’s wrong, pretty doll?” She listened intently. “You feel pain?”

Pain. So much pain. My head felt like it would explode. There was a drill in my skull, and it was not letting up. I screamed at the top of my lungs begging Mother Earth for mercy. It was as if she were actually inside my skull pounding against my brain with a sledgehammer. I had never felt anything so excruciating in my life.
Her words to her doll were quiet daggers. The pain was unbearable. I felt my brain melting into nothing, and my temples felt like knives were squeezing out of them. Her hand was still firmly clasped around my throat, forcing my gaze on her. Her lips moved furiously against the doll’s ear. I could feel my skull begin to split at my crown. I could feel human nails clawing from inside the walls of my cranium to break it open. I could feel my throat rasping as I continued to scream.

“Enough!” A booming voice filled the room. The pain stopped, but my tears didn’t. I choked and gasped in my chair. But the worst was yet to come.

The phantom had arrived.




Silverfang Episode 7: Playtime

Silverfang Episode 7: Playtime

When I was a little girl, my father taught me to do everything I know. However, the one thing I distinctly remember him teaching me was how to swim.

“Come on Zizi, a little farther!” He would encourage me. “Come on you can do it!” He would cheer. He was always there when I needed him, even when I made mistakes. He always told me to stay near the lake’s edge until I was old enough to swim on my own. When I was nine, I swam out too far into the lake, confident I could make my way back without his help. I began sinking, and my stubbornness nearly drowned me.

My father acted quickly and swam out to save me. He wasn’t even upset at me for trying to defy him. I could still see the relief in his big brown eyes, his thick eyebrows furrowed.He was only relieved that I was okay. At this moment now, I felt like I was in that pool again. Everything was dark, I wasn’t breathing, and I heard voices muffled in the background. However, when I came up to the surface, it wasn’t Papa saving me: it was a bucket of ice water.

I had a coughing fit, and I felt like I would vomit as I surfaced from unconsciousness. My breathing was shallow, and everything was still blurry. I jerked up a bit as my focus continued to clear. I was strapped into a chair with my hands tied behind my back. I could feel the rope burn cutting through my wrists. I couldn’t feel the tingle of my magic either.

Before I could panic, I was mesmerized by the sinister beauty of the girl standing before me. She towered over me, only watching. The look in her eyes was almost admiring- as if she’s found a rare gem in the sand. She cradled a porcelain doll in her arms with an eerie resemblance to her. It had the same milky white skin and lilac eyes which seemed to follow my every move- as if they could very well snatch the soul right out of my body.

I couldn’t speak or so much as breathe. The silence stretched on.

I dragged my eyes away from her stare long enough to realize that I was in a room with no windows or doors. There was no indication of where I may have been. For a long pause, the girl said nothing, her movements faint if at all visible. She only gazed at me as I struggled to find logic in the mess I was in. My mouth was dry, and my jaw felt like it would fall off my already numb face. My mind was in a haze and refused to cooperate with me.

Running. I was running from something. Not something. Someone. I was running from… Violet eyes. Deep, dark, violet eyes. My memory finally cut through the haze, and I remembered everything. The roof tops. The fall. Everything was clear. And that stranger: how did he know my name?

“Pretty doll,” the girl said.

My chest tightened at the familiar skin-crawling coo, my eyes snapping back to her gaze. I couldn’t speak, and for a moment, there was only the sound of my ragged breathing.

“Who are you? What the hell am I doing here?” I demanded. My voice cracked as I tried to sound confident.

A small sweep of anger crossed her face. “Pretty dolls don’t talk like that,” she hissed. I tugged my wrists apart behind me, desperate to wisp through them. “The rope is a neutral agent. No magic for you,” the girl said. She pulled a small porcelain brush from the breast pocket of her cloak. “I wouldn’t want you to run away before we can play,” she said, softly passing her brush along my curls. “You’re so much prettier than all my other dolls. So much more interesting.”

Clearly, this girl had a few screws loose, but she should be unwilling to hurt me if she thought I belonged to her.

I had to play along. “Thank you,” my voice shook. “I bet I’m your favorite doll yet.” I forced a smile.

She nodded, cracking a small smile. “They told me to play nicer with you.” I could feel her cool breath inches from my face as she brushed along my hairline. “I broke all the other ones,” she sighed.

She pulled out a small dagger from her cloak, caressing the blade.

“I promise I’ll be gentle with you,” she said.