Call Me Les
She/her | Cat enthusiast | "Word-Nerd" | Fueled by buttertarts
- Co-Founding admin at Vocal Social Society & Great Incantations
- Co-Founder of the Vocal Creators Chronicle
- Vocal Spotlight
- Book: Owl in a Towel
Denouement Aboard the Disoriented Express
The droning buzz of indiscernible conversation awakens me; it filters into my mind like bees searching for their hive, spreading throughout my body until it reaches my heart and nestles there. I gasp, open my eyes and my heart beats for the first time. From the shadows, I take in my surroundings.
Let Feedback Ring
Criticism. Rejection. Feedback. The holy trinity of a writer's worst nightmare. No wonder we use pen names. Gabino's thoughts ring true for short stories and Vocal articles as well; basically, anything that comes from an author's inner world is close to our heart. Sometimes, sharing your work with the public feels like walking into a room naked. But, like, not just naked, covered in warts with a bad haircut, and the audience is your former high school classmates kind of naked.
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It wasn't a real candle; no, it was one of those tacky, neon signs shaped like one. Below it read the words: SPELLS & WEDDINGS FOR CHEAP. Nevertheless, it was a beacon in the twilight, spilling into the darkness of the bleak, dense forest, which surrounded the cabin like a cloak. For the hikers, it was a welcome sight—they'd reached their strange destination at last.
The 'Last Supper'
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The candle, much like the man who lit it, was a lingering piece of history, which had been all but swallowed by the flow of time. Few still living remembered how to use manual implements anymore; and certainly not one as antique as a candle.
Walk with me. You are twenty years old, sitting in a dive bar on the outskirts of San Antonio. San Antonio is the desert. You prefer the snow, yet love led you astray. This isn't the kind of bar that will serve you some trendy, alcohol-free beverage besides Coke, and Coke is not going to be enough to rescue a Canadian in Texas after a long day of spelunking.
To a Father
I am a collector of father figures; no one who knows me well would ask why. I recently lost my former father-in-law, a man who made fatherhood—parenthood—his primary mission in life. It will always be a wound on my soul that I didn't get to give him a grandchild, just perhaps less raw than it is today.