17-year-old writer who hopes to write stories for a living someday-- failing that, I'd like to become a mermaid.
the priest: explanation and analysis
I just finished a story called 'the priest'. It's probably the most personal piece of fiction I've ever written. Regardless of who reads it, I wanted to explain the story a little bit and how it relates to me. I've never done this-- never analyzed a piece of my own fiction, and it feels silly, but it also feels kind of important? Like talking about myself might deepen any readers' understanding of it. Like writing this will get some things off my chest.
- Top Story - September 2023
the priestTop Story - September 2023
Stained glass draws patterns onto the floor that dapples the wood and directs the eye to where the pews sit battered, old and scratched, cushions faded by decades of kneeling. Book pages are yellowed and most of them stick together. The age of the church hangs in the air, in the particles of dust, in the sunlight that tentatively makes its way through the large windows.
- Top Story - August 2023
BelladonnaTop Story - August 2023
Once upon a time there were cotton skirts and wooden baskets and singing, lovely girls in the woods and classical activities like reading books for entertainment. The perfect setting for fairy tales, if one didn’t mind a set of rose-colored glasses over things like poverty, and grime, and the deaths from illnesses now so easy to cure.
I haven't been alive for a very long time. I've been writing-- truly writing-- for far less than that, maybe three or four years of cranking out poetry, short stories, the plots of books I may or may not write, conversations and fanfictions and rambling sentences that help me give meaning to something important. It all litters my Google Drive in a delicious orgy of words and ideas.
"Cruel Summer" is a dangerous piece about what it means to fall for someone and how falling can feel like a religious thing, like the person you love is worth worshipping. Even in the middle of the romance, the song is tinged with regret for everything that will break eventually.
It was late, but the gallery was still full of people, women and men alike, in very fine clothes. The women tossed back heads covered in pearls, let long silken dresses tangle around their heels as they walked, and the men, in dark suits, were mainly responsible for holding the arms of their ladies and acting as an accessory to their beauty.