Writer, watercolorist, and regular at the restaurant at the end of the universe. Twitter @inkladen
The Mirage of the Hourglass
I suppose I should start at the beginning, given this is where we are, but I'm at my end. Or at least I think I am... Time is a funny thing. It always seems to stretch on for ages when you're young. Days at school last for an eternity, but recess lasts for merely a millisecond. A blink, and it's gone. I remember I used to come home from school with wishes for milk and cookies, only to remember that those were the dreams of other children. Dreams weren't meant for me. If I was lucky, I’d fumble with a can opener for a few minutes before seeking repreive. The plight of the left-handed.
Eating From Your Tree of Knowledge
T/W: references to sexual and physical assault, narcissistic abuse I used to swim in the seas of my senses. My waters would ebb and flow with the tides, in sync with the moon and her cycles. My ocean was full of unexplored terrain, eager to be explored.
Portobello Road was one of her favorite places on Earth. The maze of cobblestone streets peppered with tourists promised hidden treasure if you were patient enough to go hunting. The rules were simple. Avoid said tourists at almost all costs. They usually opted for the neat stalls, all the finds deftly organized in the windows, beckoning in more hopeless saps. Suckers.
- Top Story - November 2023
What Are Neologisms?Top Story - November 2023
One of the many things I like about writing on Vocal is that it urges me to write. Each week or month comes with a fresh set of challenges, which serve as a nice amuse bouche for this writer’s palate which can be prone to writer’s block. ‘Neolomicro’ is a particularly fun one, again offering small bites of inspiration for an easily distracted mind.
She Showed Me Thalassonorous
I've always loved the sea. Mama says it's because she named me Mariana. It was my destiny. "'Mar' means 'sea', you see, and the rest is history", she'd say. I suppose she was right. From the first clumsy flaps in floaties to my great strides in salt water, my journey with the ocean was a labor of love.
Antonia only liked people on rare occassions. Usually when there were restrictions in place, like in libraries, where the expectation was that one's mouth would mostly remain shut. Or in movie theatres, where the same unspoken rules applied. Parties were abject torture, unless she was able to secure the a wallflower and pluck them from the rest. It was likely she would remain holed up in a far corner of an upstairs room for the remainder of the evening, discussing everything from Greek philosophy to 14th century textiles, until it was acceptable to return home.
He Was her Unamore
The flowers on the the windowsill succumbed to their fate as the last petal fell onto the wood below. A cloud of dust coughed, before it’s brethren danced in the sunbeams, interrupting her reverie. The woman wiped a tear from her eye. It was beautiful, this fleeting moment of particles suspended. It's what they once were, her and Him. With Him, the sun rose and set. With her, the light was eclipsed in shadow. He had breathed his last breath, leaving her in a state of stasis and stagnation.