Category Archives: My writing



Robert Braxton anticipates the day like a newborn child coming into the world. He is aware that the only reason a crime extraordinaire like him would be persecuted on a pretty theft charge is simply the government can’t gather evidence on the larger crimes. Emma Poloski is his wet dream of all the district attorneys, not because she was the best in all of Chicago, but because he off-ed her little brother fourteen years ago.


Robert sits in his chair biting on the tips of his fingernails from anticipation and longing. As Emma strolls through the courtroom, the chattering of the jury members ceases. They sense her presence and she demands their attention without a single word. Her voice enters the spacious room and echoes off the ceiling. Robert searches in the depths of her emerald eyes for some sorrow, but he receives nothing. The usual determination the prosecuted face isn’t even present in her eyes. Her hair is down atop her head in a rigid bun, the black suit with a navy blue under top, and her flat shoes show a strong female, in a male dominated field.


Emma Poloski calls Robert to the stand. He tries to remain calm walking to the stand, but his stroll appears like a giddy, gallop instead. He didn’t care they would lock him up a pair of years. Quite frankly, the sentence seems like a reward compared to the sentence of life they should’ve given him for the death of Adam Poloski or the numerous drug deals he organizes and leads across the town. More over, Robert wants a reaction. Poloski fiddles around with some questions beating around the bush to the petty crime. She is agitated that the office even assigned her such a case. Her eyes show no recognition to the man in front of her and he is disappointed. He thinks to himself: “I killed your little brother, damn. How can you be so intelligent to lockup so many of my men and you can’t notice the king right in front of you?” Her strategic questions are just frustrated attempts to get the information. They lacked the drive and luster of her previous cases and Poloski really didn’t care to waste her time on such a case. She had made it obvious to her higher ups, but they didn’t seem to really pay much heed to her advice.


Emma knows any hardened criminal has a solid alibi. She leans over the stand trying to seem intimidating and says: “At the time of 2:03 am on the day of December 13th, who were you with?” Braxton exhales and rolls his eyes, because he realizes the case is a waste of their time and it is blown. He anticipated an emotional breakdown for nothing. As Emma winks coyly in his direction, he is enticed. “Is Emma Poloski trying to seduce me by blowing the case?” he thinks to himself confusedly, but quickly ignores the notion.


When Emma hears the verdict, she anticipated it. Climbing into her car, she inhales and follows Braxton. Braxton is knowledgeable, but he wasn’t against being followed. His men can easily defend him against a dainty, little female. She can dress, think, and work like a man, but she’ll never measure up. Clearly, she can’t even recognize the man who murdered Adam. Emma isn’t hiding her tailgating adventure and hops out of the car at the same instant.


She follows him to the porch. Her hands remove the hair tie concealing the true length of her hair. Her dark, chestnut brown locks flow to her shoulders messily and her emerald green eyes are enticing. She removes the black suit jacket and unbuttons her navy, blue top. “She’s sure not the little girl, she used to be.” Braxton thinks. He runs her fingers through her dark, distinguished hair.


            One of his men enters the room. Braxton looks sharply in his direction. He can see the look on the man’s face. His men are aware of his violent outrages and they don’t experiment to find out the breaking point, especially not with his lustful desires of women. Poloski submissively looks into his eyes like a doll. Her dominance fades into the background. He rips her shirt off hungrily and eagerly ready.


Carefully, Robert pulls her towards him and kisses her twirling her tongue around inside his mouth. She breathes into his ear and slowly kisses his neck as she reaches into her pocket grabbing a poisoned dart. Emma looks into his eyes and whispers: “Two years isn’t justice, life for a life. You should’ve known Emma Poloski is never dominated.” He gasps for air dramatically for a few moments and Emma Poloski leaves a picture of Adam and her business card in his hand.  She removes her shirt fiercely: “Is this what you wanted to see?”


Leaving the building,  the air breezed against her bare back and her breasts were a sense of pride and not shame. She stands facing the drizzling clouds. Instead of racing to the car, she stands abruptly until she hears a man exit the home. “You can never dominate my world.”: Emma declares. The poison was released from her kiss as well as the dart. She falls to the ground, before the trigger is even poured, and she vomits on the driveway.


Her body doesn’t want to accept the poison, but Emma Poloski decided what will happen in her life, even at death.


The Moss


Without eyesight, the world enriches itself in so many other ways. It shouts from the ground and the wind whispers in one’s ear. I love the vibrations hidden within music few can welcome into their eyes. They waltze on by in a symphony composed within their minds because they can visualize it. But, do they truly see it? If they ignore, the grass beneath their feet because they’d rather just see it and walk on by. If they can feel it, then they truly are connected allowing that brief moment to grace their neurons and reach their being.  I’ll walk on out to the tree. I name it, Akash. Akash for open sky. It reminds me of an open sky even though it engulfs it. I can feel the intertwining roots that come in and out of the earth. The varieties of textures feel so wonderful. The moss against the dirt and the dirt against the rocks and it all against the bark of the tree root. All of it connected and okay with feeling and relying upon the next in perfect unison.

“Honk, honk.”, the taxi interrupts my thought.
My mom sends me off in a taxicab every morning off to school. I count the amount of steps to the cab and go within its passenger seat. Usually, to find some overtly, unattached driver that welcomes me or allows me to enter into the car. One, two, three……106 done. “Hello, how are you?”, I question the driver. He brushes off my questions, occasionally that happens. It’s rather off-putting. But, they say you get used to it. I wonder when that day will arrive.
The musky, old man cologne encircles the back seat coating my nose thickly. I feel the side of the cab for the window’s handle and bam, got it against the velvet a plastic handle. I twist and twist wanting some fresh air. Finally, freedom.

“Little girl, what’s your name?”, I’m far from little. I’m nearly 16. Ugh, at least he recognized my existence for some moment in this universe.
“Abigail.”, I say as if he may be sincerely interested and I can tell from his tone he’s fair from genuinely interested.
“Ok.”, he replies. Why would he ask if he’s not interested? I don’t understand. He’s so peculiar. I tried to at least give him the benefit of the doubt. “Your mom likes me, you know?”
“She never mentioned you, though.”, I state rather inquisitively.
“Do you recognize the smell?”, he asks matter of factly. I do. It’s that smell I briefly catch in the morning as I pass her bedroom to go to the bathroom. It’s distinct. But, when I come back around I don’t smell it. I smell some air freshener in place of it.
“Why didn’t she mention you?”, I reply hesitantly.
“Because, she didn’t want to confuse you.”, he says earnestly.

“It’s okay, I’m okay with it. I understand she wants a friend even if it may be a bit more. I won’t mention you told me. So, are you my taxi driver or a family friend?”
He pulls over to the side of the ride, before we’ve reached my destination. I hear nothing. The hustle and bustle of a gas station didn’t accompany the stop. He’s rustling in the trunk. Probably, not a taxicab driver, my mother trusted him or needed him financially. Either way is acceptable.
“You don’t need to go to school today. Your mother wanted me to get to know you. A family friend. I’m a family friend.”, whip, and he coaxes me on a sheet.

“Do you remember the sounds surrounding your father’s death?”, I feel a breeze and an unease. Then, he hands me a sandwich in a Ziploc baggy, a can, and some chips.
“I’d prefer that not to be asked. Get to know me the same way everyone else does.”, our connection was off from the start. As if he’s not connecting to me, but the idea of me.
His smell is closer. Why didn’t my mother mention this before I left the house? An arm grasps my wrist and I feel rope against my wrists. “What are you doing?”, I say standing to fight the sensation of helplessness. I step back and take off my shoes. It’s so much easier to read the surroundings without them. Maybe, if I find a road. But, I see nothing, absolutely nothing. The connections I once felt instantly cease. I can’t hear and my bare feet against the ground are just that bare feet against the ground.
“Ensuring my pleasure. You know that feeling of the meat in your mouth, that nice juicy, tender muscle where the blood once pulsed. Well, you know what’s better? The blood still pulsing. The connection of an impending death and the inquisition of something’s up. Something, not quite right. But, there and ignoring that signal for trust.”, he breathes the words down my neck.

Our connections. No mine’s better. No, no, no it’s not the same. We’re not the same.
I search inside for my ability, my ability to connect of what’s beneath my feet, instead I simply run. Run like everyone else in the universe as if nothing was beneath me. I instantly fall to the ground on a rock. A rock? How did I not feel it? No, I collapse under the weight of my body and feel him over top of my body.

“You denied the connection, silly child. You’ll soon learn we’re one in the same. We feel what the rest of the world denies. We’re different than them. You thought I was one of them. Never doubt your instincts. But, it’s too late now. Your fear got in the way of your connection. You’ll be my meal like the rest of it. My first human victim. I thought you may be different but there’s no second chances, only me.”, he declares as he binds me.
I laugh nervously. That’s insanity. I’ll survive. What’s that sound? I hear a sound? It could be someone to help me. I scream and hear the insane laughter piercing my ears. I’ll scream through the woods to someone’s ears that are connected to the world. The world I’m leaving and entering. A squirrel’s running. Why couldn’t I be a squirrel? Nooo, I can feel my blood pooling about my stomach, it’s wetness like a creek. I scream louder for the security I may survive. What’s that? I hear a cricket, maybe a locust, and perhaps the swaying of a branch. But the only human is the human whose teeth enter my stomach, clench, and yank. Like a steak, only me. It’s me. And I feel the world it becomes one, the sounds muddles about me. My screams increasingly faints until they mesh into the squirrel that becomes the cricket and the cricket becomes the person eating my flesh. I can feel the sensation of tearing. Everything stops. Yet, I’m it. I’m the only thing. The only connection between it all. It’s all there and it’s me. Yet, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.  My body’s not on the sheet. It’s near the tree. It’s the moss. Aw, the moss. I reach my foot to that moss. If it’s the last thing, I do is touch my foot upon the soft, welcoming moss. Aww, pure bliss and silence of not feeling anything but that connection from that moss patch.
Foot steps approach. From who? A police siren, a muddle, and perhaps salvation, I think as I slip back into interrupting boundaries and the pain rushes back. The blood’s felt, my body’s mine, I’m separate. No, a snap felt from within the core of my bones. “You’ll realize, what I hope soon I will, too.”, he whispers through a strained crack.
Suddenly, it ceased within a nanosecond. Our last breath’s exhaled in a strange united ecstasy. The carnivore’s pleasure and mine ceased to be different and mold into one unit as I fade into the moss’ texture and his into the last bite of my flesh. It permeates to form one thing, the only Being in existence, Me.

Life update: Houston?


If you are from Houston, be a pal, write me in the comments! I’ll love you para siempre.

I do not usually rant about my life. It’s not the main purpose of this blog and I feel sort of like I’m shorting you guys by doing so. But, I really need to vent so you are my audience. I’m not forcing you. The point of no return has not been reached. I’m home from Cedar Point (an amusement park in Ohio). 3rd summer there. Not a vacation at all.
maXair at Cedar Point, Ohio
So, I was supposed to go to Spain to assist in teaching English at a University. After the long debate in my cabeza about that event, I decided it was time to admit it: “I’m financially unable to go to Spain” I was sad, devastated, it was like “Let it go” from Frozen…but that’s the stuff you want to let go in life. The earth-shattering realization hit me: I need to find my path in this world and quick OR I could wind up in a gas-station in the Snow belt of Ohio for an indefinite amount of time living with my wonderful grandparents.

I want an adventure. The need to relocate and embark on another adventure still exists in my veins. So, I applied to all the teaching assistant jobs within cities. I applied and applied nonstop for about a week. I sent principals my resume. I bedazzled it and everything. You can imagine them holding the glorious, sparkling wonder in their fingers as sweat beads go down their old principally wrinkles used to brow beat students into submission.

Then, finally, I got an email from an Environmentally-based Magnet School in Houston. HOUSTON!? I’m bilingue. Yes, hire me please! They did. My mom calls the real-estate agent for the closest apartment in the area and the woman advises her to not let me move to that area. ¿Dónde está mi aventura?! Worst part is that was one of the few apartments I can afford. 😦 houston

false comfort


            Tungu leaves his small apartment to escape his girlfriend’s screams. His relationship was not always plagued with such instability. But, his desire to please and not be lonely causes him to stay. He longs for a companion and to some degree searches for it beneath the poorly lit streetlights. He questions whether all the apartment buildings stacked upon each other are just as miserable as he is and he doubts it.


            Tungu stops in his tracks, when he hears yelling. He can’t comprehend the words leaving the abuser’s mouth. But, he did comprehend the bone cracking sound and a dog’s whimper shrilling the silent street air. He pauses. Tungu has never really been a fan of animals, but he visualizes himself bursting him and saving the dog from the physical pain and he wonders who will save him from his emotional pain.


            Through the metal fence, a puppy appears scared and distraught. Even beneath the streetlights, the puppy appears gorgeous with its fur in all directions and eyes that pierced the soul. Instantly, he snuggled up to Tungu and whimpered a weak sigh of relief. The whimpering continues from inside again. But, Tungu did not dare step forward. Tungu imagines his girlfriend’s response as he questions whether he should abandon the dog in a shelter or keep him. The feeling of his heartbeat made him feel a sense of comfort and a sense of need from another living being. Tungu’s lips spread out into a smile that came from deep within his beating heart and immersed in that of the little ball of unorganized fur.


            Tungu slowly realizes his pup does not like people. He appears to like people as they gravitate towards his unnatural beauty, but the instant they attempt to touch him he snaps. He called his mom for advice and she said to beat the habit out of him. But, he didn’t have the heart for that in the least. The pup already saw enough abuse in his days. When his girlfriend discovers the nasty little habit, she shrieks: “it’s me or the dog.” Tungu shrugs his shoulders, packs his bags, and thinks to himself: “I wouldn’t really mind living in the country anyhow and the fresh air could do us some good.”


            Tungu spent his days calling people late on their insurance car payments. He decides to not make the call to the business. They never cared about him. They never valued him and wouldn’t notice his loss. The barn’s paint peels into flakes and land on the floor. He inhales, smiles, and scoops his pup into his arms and like Lion King lifts him into the air atop a stack of hay barrels. Tungu is now the king of his palace and Victor became his prince.


            The bond grows betwixt Victor and Tungu. Tungu can snap his finger and along runs Victor, except in one case when Victor’s lust for blood outweighed his desire to please. The animals flee from Victor as fast as their three legs can carry them. All the animals upon Tungu’s farm had three or two legs and hobbled about. But, they learned how to hobble faster than the wind in Victor’s presence. It is no secret Victor would bite any living being encapsulated in his trusting personality, except Tungu.


            Tungu spent nights questioning whether Victor’s life was worth the pain he caused and the danger he posed to others. Yet, no one visited Tungu and Victor lay at the foot of his bed every night. Not even, his girlfriend bear to sleep with him every night. Tungu isn’t sure if the same blood lust lies in Victor’s eyes towards him. But, he accepts the risk.


            An old man in a pick up truck drives up the property. He exits and inhales a long, drawn out breath longing into the bright blue clouds. “I haven’t seen this farm in ages! I just came to see the new ownership.” Suspiciously, Tungu uneasily alternates between one foot and the other. The sun beats down and beads of sweat fall one by one down the old man’s wrinkly face.


            “You look thirsty, I’ll get you a glass of water.” Tungu says as societal courtesy reenters his thoughts. “Victor, no.” he says firmly eyeing Victor nervously. Victor obeys. “Whatever you do, don’t pet the dog.” He says hurriedly going inside.


            “All dogs love me.” The old man chuckled to himself with his raspy voice as the screen door drowned out his words. Victor wags his tail and as the old man gains trust the happiness crescendos in the dog’s hypnotizing eyes. Chomp! The agonizing scream pierces the air. Instantly, the old man’s cane hits the grass beneath it and Victor found the one victim who cannot hobble fast enough from him.


            Tungu rushes outside. “Will they make me put him down? Did the old man obey my wishes or did Victor attack first?” In frenzy, Tungu crouches down to pick up the cane and he stares into the old man’s pleading eyes and those of Victor. He raises the cane above his head and hesitates. Meanwhile, Victor sucks the blood from his victim’s finger like a straw.


            “He could’ve been just protecting me. Victor sleeps at the foot of my bed every night.” Tungu thinks to himself.  “If no one misses me, no one will surely miss an old, senile man.” He lifts the cane above his head staring down at two potential victims to his torment and slams the cane down. Once, then twice and the cracking bones pierce the air just as he heard the past year. Wildly, Tungu finishes the deed with repeated swift movements of the cane. The air swooshes as he increases his speed to eliminate his victim’s final breath.


            A blanket is sprawled across the green moss atop Tungu’s favorite rock. He stands; stretches, and his fingers grab tufts of Victor’s fur. A sharp splinter of wood pierced his finger in this ruckus and he plucks the cane’s small chunk of wood out, and then returns his hand to its previous location. Tungu’s worries dissipate in the thick summer air as Victor licks his finger in a display of loyalty and affection…or lust for the stray droplet of blood.  

Handle me with care


Please handle me with care

You should worry how I’ll fare

Trapped inside this place

This globe


You could drop me

Then, there would

Surely be a rupture

Or a puncture

Within me


The glass can

Offer a reflection

Or a cut

If not handled properly


My dear, little, friend

Don’t drop me

I’m trapped

I can see out


But you act as if

You can’t see within

This glass globe

I’m in 

Vivid Oscurity Portion, español está abajo




               Thoughts enter and leave. Thoughts were something I feared. I feared myself and in the most organic way feasible.

         Antigone Lynn Johnson feared herself. She wanted to pour a dark, obscure pint of ink all over the page of her thoughts. Yes, she would allow herself to at first consume herself in those thoughts. The page was blank, until unorganized thoughts were scattered and scribbled upon the white surface. The pure surface became cluttered. Did she know what to do? She thought she knew what was best for the world’s reality, but it would be a cold day in hell before she accepted the responsibility over her little page.

         It’s quite an ironic thought to think. When one’s page in life is so futile in comparison to the endless stacks of uneven pages in the book of humanity, why would I tackle the large instead of the small?  Oh, don’t you doubt the irony that abounded! She crumbled her little page. She tossed it in the waste bin. She took it out. She glanced at it. She took her phlegm clogging her throat and spit it in the page. It’s gooey texture separated, when she reopened it.

         Antigone Lynn Johnson did just what she intended. She poured that black ink all over that gooey, scribbled on page. She poured it, until its black existence seeped down the sides and coated her hands. Desperately, she took her hands and smeared them across the grass, the bark, submersed them in the creek, but to no avail the ink remained. It coated everything she touched, because she allowed the ink of her ink to consume her life, to try to blotch out my thoughts, underneath the ink poisoned me. It made green frogs, once healthy bubble up from the depths of the water I drank from. Each day, the drops consumed her. I would remove her hair. Across her face, a permanent smudge swept across my forehead. I would ignore it, until one day.

         She was awakened and looked into water so clear and mirror-like. We shall call this water the mind of Sr. Miyagi. I trembled at the sight, but he drowned her. She forced her to look at her reflection tainted with the blank egotistical ink. He plunged my head under water.  She would arise gasping for air; afraid for my existence, afraid I would vanish. I fought him, despite her sight of the reflection. Gradually, she worked with her and decided to go with the current of this fluid-like being she called my teacher.

         The ink faded. Sometimes, my ego surfaces after many sunny days. It’s an interesting to think each day the sunrises of how it fades into the background of everything surrounding me. The more it fades into the background the less I taint the reality around me. My hands are my hands. My prints are invisible, yet on some level they still exist in the universe surrounding me. 


Versión en Español: 

La tinta disminuía. Es interesante pensar cada día el sol se despierta y disemine en el fondo de mi ambiente alrededor mí. Lo más que disemine en mi fondo, lo menos contamino mi realidad. Mis manos son mis manos. Mis huellas no son visibles, pero aún en algún nivel ellos existen en este universo de lo que pertenezco. 

                  Pensamientos entran y salen. Los temía. Temía mí mismo en la manera más orgánica. Antigone Lynn Johnson temía sí mismo. Quería poner una pinta de una tinta oscura sobre su página de sus pensamientos. Sí, podía permitirse a consumir sí mismo en estos pensamientos. La página era blanca, hasta el punto de sus pensamientos desorganizados eran garabatos sobre el superficie. El superficie puro cambia a ser desordenados. ¿Ha sabido que hacer? Pensaba que sabía exactamente lo mejor para la realidad del mundo, pero el día infierno sería frío, es el día que acepta la responsabilidad de su paginita.

         Es muy irónico que la página de una persona en su vida puede parecer más grande que todas las páginas en el libro de humanidad. ¿Por qué voy a teclear el grande en vez del pequeño? OH, no lo dudes que el ironía existe. Ella destruyó su página. Lo tiró en la basura. Lo sacó del tacho de basura. Lo miró. Sacó el flema de su garganta seca. Escupí el flema sobre la página. Su textura pegajosa forma entre las arrugas del papel cuando ella lo abrió.


         Antigone Lynn Johnson hizo que intentó. Puso la tinta negra sobre la página pegajosa y garabateada hasta la tinta corría afuera de los bordes y cubrían sus manos. Desaceradamente, puso sus manos sobre el césped, las sumergía, pero la tinta quedaba sobre sus dedos. Tocaba las cosas en su ambiente y todo cambiaba a ser negro. La tinta existía y dominaba su mundo porque ella permitía la tinta a consumir su vida, para sacar sus pensamientos, bajo la tinta en el agua. Las ranas verdes, en algún punto nada en este agua que yo bebía. Cada día, las gotas le consumía. Sacada su pelo de mi cara. A través su cara, una mancha permanente existía sobre mi cara. Trataba de ignorarlo hasta un día.

         Ha despierta y miró la agua tan claro como un espejo. Vamos a llamar esta agua: La mente de Sr. Miyagi. Temblaba a la vista, pero él le ahogó. Le hizo mirar su reflexión egotista con la polución de la tinta.  Miyagi ahogó mi cabeza bajo el agua. Ella subió rezando para agua; temía por mi existencia, temía que no iba a existir nunca más.


         Yo le peleaba, aunque veía la vista de la reflexión. Lentamente, ella trabajaba con ella y decidió a ir con la fluidez de este Maestro.


Cover “Vivid Obscurity”


My wonderful friend made my first professional book cover. Mi amigo increíble me hizo mi primera portada profesional.

A little inspiration for the novel: “My bent is fixed, I tell thee, not for hatred, but for love.
Creon: “Go, then below. And if thou most have love, Love those thou find’st there. While I live, at least, A woman shall not rule. “-Antigone, Sophocles

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