Kira DeSomma
Bio
Author. Artist. Earl Grey Enthusiast // She/her // Joypunk and/or hopecore
Stories (14/0)
The Last Currency of the Deep
This far underwater, things resembled space. There were flecks of debris that mimicked stars as they floated by, reflecting the glow of Miri’s flashlight, but overall she was swallowed in darkness. The pressure suit she wore gave her protection from the elements, but that was all for the body. Her mind tended to wander on these excavation trips. In her old age, she had a tendency to hum songs with long-forgotten lyrics to keep herself calm as she shivered through her suit.
By Kira DeSomma 8 months ago in Fiction
Vowed to the Old Gods
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. The boundaries, though invisible to the human eye, were clearly marked and maintained by the witches who served as guards to the Old Gods. Tales passed down from the humans made it clear that the witches protected the humans from the dragons. Tales passed down from the dragons made it clear that the witches protected the dragons from the humans. But the one thing everyone seemed to be able to agree on was that the witches were a cold force: a solemn group, as stern and haughty as nuns, cloistered away in the mountains where they could pray and practice magic in silence…
By Kira DeSomma 8 months ago in Fiction
Pork Roll, Egg, & Cheese
If you are not from the Jersey shore, a love of pork roll is hard to explain, but I will try. Salty and tangy, the cooked meat is shaved into slices, cooked again on a griddle or flat top grill, and piled three- or four-slices-high onto soft rolls with drippy eggs and cheese. Salt, pepper, and ketchup are added as per the buyer’s preference, and the sandwich is wrapped in a sort of foil paper. Then, the greasy masterpieces are thrown into paper bags. Pork roll can be purchased in logs, which are wrapped in cloth at grocery stores, but I’ve never seen the meat at any ‘real’ butcher’s shop. The cheese is usually yellow American or mozzarella, which is what my mother used to order, when she still ate bread.
By Kira DeSomma 10 months ago in Feast
Pixie, Please
In the children’s story bible that I read as a child, Delilah tempted Samson with fat wet lips and wide, lying snake-eyes. It was a bible for little girls, so the story was not about Samson’s strength but Delilah’s treachery: it was Delilah’s fault that Samson lost his strength. Delilah forced Samson to drink. Delilah drove the nails into Samson’s eyes. Delilah held the scissors - Delilah did the cutting.
By Kira DeSomma about a year ago in Viva
Poems to Waxman S2, E2
Today, a special ‘fuck you’ to the one who promised me I was more sophisticated than my tastes. Who swore to me, up and down, it was better to describe a work of art than to love it. I love this song. I love it. I love it so much, I want to spread my legs over it and fuck it until we are both so done we cannot move and we collapse laughing onto the picnic blanket.
By Kira DeSomma about a year ago in Poets
Miss Clementine Kidd's Guide to Slow Magic
The postmaster peered over his crinkled newspaper at me as I stood in his doorway, hand firmly on my satchel. He sighed thickly, his illustrious black mustache swaying with the breath, and looked back down at his paper. The headline on the front page read in large black lettering: CRIME! Which had me wondering who, exactly, was doing this sort of vague shoddy reporting work, and why he was so utterly transfixed on the paper. Maybe he hadn’t seen me, my dramatic silhouette cast in his doorway. I cleared my throat in a way I hoped was dainty and not pushy.
By Kira DeSomma about a year ago in Fiction
Shattering Song
I spend the morning hours beheading the blue tulips. The phosphorescent flowers crept into the garden overnight, their heads glinting the same way bad ham starts to glint. If you don’t like the idea of bad ham, picture an oil spill, slick and wet with rain -- every rainbow color encapsulated, every hue of the spectrum on display. Their color is their death sentence. As soon as I saw them, I clamored out of the kitchen with a ‘No, oh no’. I was halfway through cracking eggs to make breakfast, but rushed outside with a pair of meat scissors to slice through their fleshy stems. I hitched my apron and skirts up past my knees, dug my feet into the earth, and
By Kira DeSomma about a year ago in Fiction
The Pigeon Repairman of the Bronx
My father was an honest man, as long as you were not working for a government agency, Wall Street, or for some reason the ASPCA. He spent his career teaching aspiring mechanics the distinct types of drill bits in what seemed to me to be a foreign language. His auto-shop students were young, hardened by work and life, and eager to please my father. My father, in turn, was quiet and difficult to please, but I was his only daughter, and I did not have to try. I lacked the eagerness to please and the eagerness to learn the parts of a car. As a child, I was more interested in digging up worms in the garden and scratching moss off stones.
By Kira DeSomma 2 years ago in Fiction
