All posts filed under: Fiction

Myth

There once was a girl. Or at least, she started out as girl. People didn’t really see her that way. Then again, people never really seemed to see her at all. I mean, they looked at her. They definitely looked. But no one ever saw. They only saw what they wanted to see, what they were comfortable with, what they could easily consume. At school, they made her the siren–most enchanting from a distance but come any closer and she’d lure you to your death; so no one ever dared to get too close. To some, she was a sphinx; full of riddles and nearly impossible to get through to. They thought they were the answer; they didn’t realize that there wasn’t any. Sometimes, they made her out to be a mermaid of some kind. As the legend went, she would make promises with no legs and would swim away as soon as tides got a little rough. When they couldn’t quite put a name to what she was, they would just give her any …

Stay Dead

He didn’t quite understand how life worked. He would kill himself time and time again only to come right back. Sometimes right away, sometimes a week later, sometimes after a month or even a year. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, it wasn’t really about time. He’d always come back. This world drove him crazy but the idea of being forgotten drove him even more so. He refused to be forgotten. So he’d come back to life and for awhile, he’d forget why he ever killed himself in the first place. The problem wasn’t in his dying. He couldn’t really help himself. No matter how hard he tried, no matter the situation, there would always come a time where his anxiety would take over. Life would get to be too much for him and he would need to disappear. Not that he didn’t try staying alive. He tried. He would make friends, cultivate interests. He would practice mindfulness and meditation. Form long-lasting connections. Eat good food and travel. He did everything he was …

Voices

I’ve heard voices in my head ever since I was a kid. At first, they sounded like my older brother. They told me, “We may be blood but that doesn’t mean we bleed the same color.” They told me I was strange. They told me that I didn’t fit in. That I would never fit in. That I would always stick out sore. That I would never be comfortable in my own skin until I scraped it all off and found new skin. Later on, the voices multiplied. Now, I could hear my friends at school, too. They didn’t like my skin either. They told me, “Only weirdos read books and daydream.” They told me I talked weird. They made fun of my hair. It started to seem–at least in my head–that I would never be allowed to exist. I started to realize that I had to protect myself. Protect my insides from what was outside. People didn’t need to know what my insides looked like. Whatever it was, I knew early on that I …

Paper Dolls

When I was little, my mother gave me a paper doll. She told me, “She may be made of paper but she’s more than just that.” And she was. She would come alive in my eyes, but only mine, and I quickly grew obsessed with this paper made dream girl. She was real to the touch. Her skin would feel like skin, her hair like hair. She would blink and run and laugh. She would become a full-fledged, three-dimensional human, except not really. She wasn’t really all that human or all that dimensional. She would pull and bend and fold in places she had no control over. She would float and dance, regardless of whether or not she felt like floating or dancing. She looked human, felt human. But she was still a paper doll. When I grew bored, I started to cut her into shapes that didn’t exist. I didn’t quite know what it was I wanted her to look like but I knew she wasn’t quite there yet. It started with snips. Then …

Human Mirrors

I used to have a mirror hanging on the wall of my home. Anytime anyone would pay a visit—even if for a moment, a night, a year—they would look into it and see their worlds reflected back. Many men have come into my home searching for their mothers and so they see them in my mirror. Many still—whether conscious or otherwise—have come searching for their fathers and so they see them in my mirror. I’ve had men come through my doors looking for their exes, their friends, their ones that got away; and so they see them in my mirror. Come over, look in, I’ll show you your soul. Make yourselves comfortable, you always do. But when I look in the mirror, I see nothing. Not me. Not you. Once, came in a man that changed it all. He came in, looked into the mirror on my wall and saw me. In time, I started to see him too. The longer he stayed, the clearer my reflection of him grew. Eventually, we got used to …