I'm a writer living in Portland, OR. My work focuses on mysticism, nature, dreams, sex, and the places where these things overlap.
Contact [email protected] for inquires.
The Dark Spot
The dark spot is always there, or else it appears so early on in Winny’s life that she is unable to remember a time without it. It wades through the air, hovering over her mother’s shoulder when she is carried, swaying along beside her stroller when she is pushed. At night, it rocks her cradle. Winny learns to speak with abnormal speed, because of all the things it whispers to her. When she is old enough to know the difference between you and I, real and imaginary, she becomes acutely aware that no one else has ever seen the dark spot, or heard its voice.
The Red Butterfly
For John // The house was yellow, as it had always been in dreams, blurred as if behind thick glass, and in stories both written and never written, half-remembered, caught in glimpses on sleeping neighborhood streets, through floats of pale fog that wafted above the street lamps like ghosts.
Why I Kept the Feral Kitten My Manipulative Ex Brought Home
I was nineteen and she was twenty-one. After dating long-distance for a year, and making only irregular visits, she gave me an ultimatum: move across the country to California, or she would break up with me. Everyone in my family cautioned me against going. They could see how much I cried over her, how controlling she was over my time and attention, and how much I had changed since we’d started dating. I, too, could see these things. I went not because I believed that our relationship was healthy or meant to last, but because she convinced me that she needed me, that I was the one who could save her.
The Long Body of My Life
1. Belief Systems To begin, it helps to define some parameters. If my belief is that the movements of the planetary bodies are integral to understanding myself and others, then my sun sign—what, in common parlance, is deemed simply my “astrology sign”—is going to be very important to me. If, on the other hand, I think astrology is bunk, then I’m barely going to know how to pronounce the name of my sign, let alone remember what it is supposed to represent about me.
My mother died in the spring, on a Tuesday. I noticed a new voicemail when my shift ended, quickly forgot about it, and remembered only when the same number called again the next morning. I woke, parched and bleary, to the rumble of my phone vibrating against the dresser. I retained no images of my dreams, only an oppressive feeling of having forgotten something. I brewed a cup of coffee and drank it all in slow, deliberate sips, eyes glued to the scrolling blur of my phone screen, before listening to the voicemail.