Actually, you should be wasting five hours of your Saturday at a café with your girlfriends, twisting stories like ink-voiced vines, clouding up the place with the smoke of your laughter.

You should be asking question after question. Remember that girl from high school that hated us? What do you think Clarice Lispector was saying with “Wild at Heart”?

You should be ordering latte after latte, letting the foam paint your lower lip; beige-cloud chapstick. You should be wandering through the park and its green-lipped grins, studded leaves for earrings. Wondering what the ducks are thinking, if they enjoy spring more than summer.

You should be waking up without hurrying, stretching your arms upward until you hear your bones settle. You should not even have an alarm, nor check your phone; just tune in on the sorrowful song of the mourning dove, notice its rhythm.

You should be haunting the aisles of your local library, fixing your gaze on spines you have never seen, and taking even longer to decide which one you will be taking out of the shelf, which one will charm your heart with its words until midnight.

You should be eating a bowl of grapes, staring at nothingness until Nothingness stares back at you. You should fall asleep in the arms of your lover in the middle of the day, the two of you left behind by the bustle of life outside. You should be remembering the contour of their cheek against yours.

These things can‘t be rushed, you see. They can‘t be optimized. Accept the slowness as a part of you, as a lifeline, as a remedy. Billy Joel says, slow down. The sky says, look up.

So do it. Waste time.

Waste time and not your life.

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Masculinity is being questioned, criticized, and— according to many subgroups of “men’s rights”—outright threatened. While men are four times more likely to commit suicide than women, many of them flock to subreddits and internet forums to blame women for their loneliness, as well as unite their suffering and shame that they cannot express outside the digital realm. Likewise, many lonely men are preyed upon by so-called “pickup artists” and “alpha male gurus” who not only further dig their victims into bigger holes of despair with their superficial and vacuous advice on how to “get women”, but also profit massively from those festering insecurities.

“Only 21% of men say they received emotional support from a friend within the past week, compared to 41% of women, according to a 2021 survey by the Survey Center on American Life. Similarly, just 25% of men say they’ve said “I love you” to a friend recently, as opposed to 49% of women.” — USA Today

I am a woman, so I can’t pretend to speak for the male experience. I can only use my observations to make my point. What I have observed is this: the patriarchy has deprived women of many economic and financial opportunities, as well as positions of power, since they have historically been and still are the obvious victims of this system. But it has also deprived men of many social and emotional opportunities; to remain the patriarch, they must forfeit all rights to emotion and vulnerability, often resulting in a lack of meaningful connections with those around them.

As classic literature is famous for bringing societal and individual plights to the forefront of its epic stories, I have compiled a list of four heroes who offer a far more compelling approach to developing a true masculine identity than much of the common advice propagated by mainstream media. These characters are far from perfect; in fact, many of them start from nothing. But their stories inspire all of us—not only men—that the human spirit is unbreakable and malleable to achieve our desires.

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She listens to her husband talk.

He is explaining to her the way an engine works, or how fast a train travels, or why autumn is the best season. She does not know what it is he is saying. She only knows that he talks methodically, like a professor giving a lecture.

His voice is roasted, she notices, like black coffee. Colombian beans, ethically sourced. It soothes her and ignites her at once. She wants to curl up in it like a winter cat on a breathing chest, keeping warm.

When he stops speaking, she gets upset. It feels like a toy has been taken from her, oxygen-deprived, a piano sitting in a lonely room. She will ask him to tell her stories at night, just so she can see the cadence of his voice thrum through the room, a starlit color. She even dreams in the folds of his voice; entombed but alive, a submarine rising from the depths until she wakes up, breathing fast.

She especially loves it when he recites the grocery list back to her. Tomatoes, pappardelle pasta, burrata cheese, apples. In his voice, she can imagine the vegetable patch. In his voice, she can imagine the warm stove, the water boiling, the food steaming. The list is not a list at all. The list is the jazz music playing in the background as he wraps his arms around her waist, her hand stirring the ladle.

The days he is gone completely are the most difficult. She can feel the absence of his voice through the dampness of the rooms, the abastos growing in the air conditioners. Nothing has magic then, not the shutter of the cabinet doors, not the whistle of the wind. She has to close her eyes and picture it, when that happens.

Tell me about how the glass door shattered at work, she pleads with him in her imagination. Tell me a fun fact about your favorite Roman emperor. Tell me. Tell me.

If the need becomes too much, she will call him, impatient.

He will laugh from the other side of the phone, his laughter like a hot bath. What do you want me to talk about?

Anything, she will say. Just don't stop.

And he will feed her all through the night until she no longer remembers neediness, no longer knows lack.

Married life is surreal and beautiful. I wanted to depict it in a short story. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments.

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The woman left the village, but no one could follow her.

At first, many were enthusiastic about doing so. They packed their bags, rang the bells, and unrolled the banners from their windows. They dressed the streets with flower petals; they sang songs in the square. We will come with you, they told the woman.

But they did not. Soon, the cobblestone streets turned to dirt paths as she left. The villagers disappeared as the sputters of a late-night lamp, vanishing from her sight.

When the woman entered the forest, there were people there too. People who had left behind their own villages, their own villagers. They walked in burdened silence, enduring the dark woods side by side. Their muteness covered the trees like pinecones.

They kept together when they went to the creek to rest. They kept together when they found shelter by the branches of the trees at night. They were not rowdy like the villagers; these forest people were comforting to the woman. Their sorrow made her feel less alone.

But soon, she had to leave the forest, too. And the forest people could not follow her.

We want to, they told her.

Why don’t you? she asked.

But they looked down, deep in their sorrow-cloaks.

The woman turned her back on the forest and left.

Out in the open fields, the air seemed crisper, the sunlight brighter. Lavenders and buttercups waved as she walked through a dirt-made road. Sheep stared at her as she made her descent through the hills. They could not follow her, but their eyes were kind. Good luck, they said.

At last, she saw the city by the lake, like she had seen on a painted map at a traveling auction when she was a child. The blue-rock roofs of the houses reminded her of the sea. And the people there were happy, gliding like ships through the roots of the waves.

She cruised through the streets of this new city, smiling from ear to ear as if she had found a precious jewel tucked away in her pocket. She had done it. She had left the village. She had left the forest.

And none could follow her just yet, but someday they would.

She knew they would.

Something short and sweet to read with your morning coffee. I wrote this as I was thinking about how many villages and Forests of Sorrow I have had to leave throughout my life.

Have you had to leave a “village” to grow as a person? Let’s start a conversation in the comments.

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I have always carried a story inside of me.

And in this story, a young girl saved the world. You know. As all young girls do.

I started writing this story when I was eleven years old. And then I re-wrote it again.

And again. And again.

At first, it was a fantasy story with no clear influence; just patches and pieces of what I had collected from all the children’s books I was reading. It began as a portal fantasy in which a young girl discovers a magical world she has to save; it is now not so.

Then, as I grew older, I fell more and more in love with Classic Greek history and mythology. I read Plato’s Republic in high school and decided to base the premise of this Young Adult book on the philosophical concept of the “Noble Lie” (which is now not the case, and might be a good premise for a future project).

However, even though I was researching everything on Classic Greek history, mythology, and literature, I was actually writing about dark, dense woods with witches and dragons, and scenes from Grimm fairytales. And something shifted.

This story had to be told with the right influence.

Germany is, in many ways, my heartland.

I was not born and raised in Germany, but sometimes I feel as though I was.

I have German ancestry, and I have been learning the language since I was seven years old.

I have been traveling and learning about Germany since I was nine.

And then, in my teenage years, I got the opportunity to live in Germany for three years. This period of my life marked me forever. It made me realize what I really valued and cherished in humanity and the world. Not just because of the country itself, but also the connections I made there at an international school.

It was decided: the story had to be rooted in Germanic folklore. It made no sense otherwise.

Germanic influence in my fantasy trilogy:

• Grimm fairytales

• The Poetic Edda & Rune mythology

• The Romantic period in Germany for art, poetry, and music (like Goethe, Caspar Friedrich, and Schubert)

• The Prussian Empire & the Industrial Revolution

• General German history

Literary backbone of the story.

I do not usually write fiction “just because”. I like to have a solid foundation for my stories: a reason for existing. In particular, this story follows the Heroine’s Journey template designed by Maureen Murdock. In it, she uses Jungian psychology to explain the psycho-spiritual journey in a woman’s life (though really, this path of healing can be applied to men as well, and probably should).

I read it in 2020 and said to myself: this is it. This is the story I want to tell. This is the template that has most resonated with me and my life.

I even applied the story structure to Disney movies—The Little Mermaid & Princess and the Frog, respectively—to see if I understood it correctly and could therefore use it for my story.

There are other heavy influences on my work:

• The Beauty and the Beast, East of the Sun and West of the Moon, and other fairytales that are not Grimm

• The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien

• All works by C.S. Lewis, including the Chronicles of Narnia

• Romantic poets (not just German) like William Blake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Whitman, Emerson, and others

• In general, all the classic literature I consumed over the years

• Disney animation & Studio Ghibli films like Princess Mononoke and Howl’s Moving Castle

• Celtic influence is present in this story, too, because I also carry with me Irish and Scottish roots

• Because I am a social sciences girl at heart (I went to law school), I also included themes of environmental justice and human rights protection

• My Christian faith

Rough timeline for the trilogy.

The story was always conceived as a trilogy, even from its inception (everything good comes in threes…isn’t that what they say?). This is roughly the time it took me to write all three books:

• 2007-2019: First rewrites of the story (at least three) with different character names, places, and book titles…but essentially the same story.

• 2020: The year I read the Heroine’s Journey and began rewriting the first book, now inspired by Germanic folklore.

• 2022: The year I finished the first book and began the second book. During this time, I was also publishing my book on Wattpad. I received very encouraging comments, but because I want to have the book traditionally published, I took it off the platform.

• 2024: The year I finished the second book and began the third book.

• 2026: The year I finished the third book.

Because writing is not my full-time job and I have also been focused on other writing projects—like poetry collections or other novels—I ended up finishing one book of this trilogy every 2 years. This included: drafting, writing by hand, and then typing them up on a consolidated document.

Yes, you read that correctly. These books are all handwritten (every single chapter).

“The Runespeaker’s Prophecy”, book one of the Runespeaker Cycle.

Now that I have given a little bit of context, I would love to share with you the synopsis of the first book in the trilogy of the Runespeaker Cycle (trilogy name subject to change).

Book 1: The Runespeaker’s Prophecy

Water poisoned. Livestock dying. Time distorted.

A Curse is taking over the newly-industrialized Eternal Empire of Wahren. It is said that a group of dark sorcerers, calling themselves the Dimwoven, are to blame for plaguing the four kingdoms with chaos, darkness, and death.

Hidden in a nondescript village with her father, Ilse Wanderin tries to understand her strange connection to the Voice from which she channels the Runes, a language forgotten for more than a hundred years since the start of the Empire.

When her forbidden power is discovered, she has no choice but to set out into the world to understand her role as the Runespeaker, the one who could break the Curse and stop the Dimwoven from destroying the only home she’s ever known— all while being pursued by the Iron Prince, a powerful industrialist bent on cracking down on all kinds of self-proclaimed “enchanters” and disrupters of the industrial revolution…including her.

At its core, these are the conflicts of the first book that underscore the trilogy:

• Nature vs. industrialization

• Magic/the unexplained vs. logic/the explained

• Spirituality vs. the material world

• Symbolism vs. literalism

• Faith vs. cynicism

So…what comes next?

First, I celebrate.

I wrote a fantasy trilogy. Hooray!

Then, I get to work.

1. Deciding my market: This trilogy began as a Young Adult series. Yet, as I was finishing, I began to question: Do I still want it to be Young Adult? This is something I have to think about because I am now leaning more toward making it New Adult or just Adult Fantasy. Does this work even if the main character is seventeen at the start of the series? Let me know what you think.

2. Self-editing & revising: Each book is at roughly 80,000 words, which is…not a lot for fantasy stories. I believe it needs to be denser, and this can only be done through self-editing. I also kept changing bits and pieces of the narrative as I went, so I have to go back and fix those things I changed (so relatable, am I right?) At least I know how the story ends…

3. Searching for beta-readers: At the end of the year, I will be searching for beta-readers here on Substack who would enjoy critiquing and giving feedback for the first book (hello, you reading this, yes! It’s you I’m looking for! Jot yourself down in the comments if you would like to be a beta-reader!)

4. Submitting my manuscript & beyond: This is not something I talk about a lot on this platform, but I am actually represented by a wonderful group of agents here in Mexico. They are currently representing a Young Adult novel in Spanish to editors (a subject of another newsletter). With this trilogy, I am hoping we can break into English-speaking markets, as well. And if it doesn’t work out? I’ll find a way to put the story out there.

5. Growing the trilogy into a series: As I was typing up the last chapters of the third book, I began to think about ways to expand the series and the worldbuilding with a different set of characters and circumstances, something akin to The Realm of the Elderlings by Robin Hobb (one of my absolute favorite series). I already have some ideas for other trilogies inside the same universe, but I have to think these through before I write them.

Beyond this, I am also working on other projects, including:

1. My Young Adult novel in Spanish, which was previously mentioned. I am very secretive about this project, I know. Hopefully, I will reveal more details soon.

2. A cozy fantasy novel about a young man who has to figure out why the magic in his quirky town is dying with the help of an eccentric girl (he hates magic, by the way).

3. A duology about a magical school for royal elites to prepare for a war brewing outside their borders.

4. Works of literary fiction in Spanish that also deal with mythology and environmental protection.

5. Poetry collections in both Spanish and English.

(And also my projects in my personal & professional life. Yes. Can’t forget those.)

Would you be interested in reading or discussing any of these? If so, let me know in the comments!

One quick note.

This trilogy is inspired by Germanic folklore, mythology, and history.

However.

I do want to make it very clear—even though it should be obvious—that I am anti-fascist to my core. My faith demands that I stand against any system of oppression, injustice, superiority, or cruelty. I oppose everything that opposes love and human dignity.

If anything, the reason I write these stories is precisely that I want to reclaim the knowledge, wisdom, and power of these ancient myths from the hands of hatred that misuse them for evil.

The Germany I grew up in stands against fascism, and I am also of this upbringing.

Do not come here to find justifications for hatred and racism. You won’t find any.

Thank you for all of your support.

You helped me finish this trilogy this year.

I started Substack with the idea of sharing my fiction and writing with the world. As I received encouraging and lovely comments from all of you, I was even more inspired to finish my novels.

This story holds my heart. Thank you for helping me finish it with your kind words and ongoing support.

This is the last newsletter/announcement in a while, because this May/June:

1. I graduate from my Master‘s degree in Negotiation and Conflict Resolution from Columbia University.

2. I get married religiously in Germany to the love of my life;

3. I get to go on honeymoon with the love of my life (my husband);

4. I move out of my family home to start a new life with my husband.

Because of these many big changes, it might be that I don’t post much until late June or July.

Thank you for understanding and for being a part of my journey. Completing this story was also a way of completing a big part of my twenties, in a sense. Maybe that’s why I was rushing to finish it before all of these big changes in my life.

Until next time! With love,

Eugenia

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It would be privileged to say I spent my childhood in Narnia. But it’s true. I did spend my childhood there.

My family had its troubles, just like any other family. There were hard times, times that rolled like thunder. Times when White Witches and wicked magicians placed their spells, and we were sad and weary.

Nevertheless, I was free, respected, and loved as a child.

I was surrounded by music, guitar strings, and piano notes echoing through hallways. I learned to sing ballads long into the night on Christmas Eve, warmed by the wine, the fireplace, and the company. Music: a Gift from my mother, and my extended family.

I was surrounded by literature and poetry, both Gifts which my generous father gave me at a very young age. No book was ever forbidden for me; on the contrary, I was encouraged to read everything I possibly could. I read Charlotte Brönte, Victor Hugo, and George Orwell before I was fifteen. My father made a sanctuary out of his library. As a young girl, I played there with my cousins. As a young woman, I wrote and wrote and wrote.

I was surrounded by beautiful gardens where I saw the jasmine grow. Hummingbirds come to visit every spring; monarch butterflies come to visit every autumn. Those light, open spaces must be filled to the brim with my childhood laughter. There, I pretended to be Prince Caspian, fighting imaginary sea serpents. Play: a Gift from my siblings.

Most of all, I was surrounded by love. And I learned Aslan's voice and face. As long as the Lion was near, I knew I was safe. Protected.

So, you see, this may all seem like I’m boasting. But if you spare some grace for me, you might see that I’m feeling extremely grateful and blessed about having known Narnia all my life.

Because there was a time when I forgot about Narnia.

And Narnia became lost to me.

This is how I know you are a Narnian.

You are free, because all Narnians are free, even the Talking Beasts.

You value honor, wonder, loyalty, and truth.

You believe in dragons, and dwarves, and fauns, and all sorts of mythical creatures. You have seen them; they are your friends.

You believe, with all your heart, that there is good in the world. That this goodness is worth protecting from danger.

You oppose systems of slavery, manipulation, abuse, corruption, or selfishness.

You see the extraordinary in the ordinary.

You are marked by faith, and this faith invites you to be humbler.

This faith marks everything you do.

A few years ago, I left Narnia.

I didn’t leave all at once. My departure was slow, like stepping out of an enchanted forest: you don’t know you’re out of it until you are. You stop hearing the creek ripple and bounce, stop hearing the fairies chatter. Suddenly, you are in the Real World.

And those who inhabit the Real World quickly learn it can be cruel. It can break your heart.

There were many people I loved in this Real World who did not love me as I thought they did. Someone who grows up surrounded by love—although imperfect—knows how to give it. But it is not always easy to spot someone with bad intentions.

It is not always easy to spot those who do not love you. Especially if they claim to love you.

And in that in-between of loving and not loving, I lost the Narnian art of faith and belief in other people.

When I wanted to return, Aslan was waiting for me.

I was at the edge of the world, clouds drifting beyond the cliffs. Narnia was just below me, out of reach. Almost there. Almost.

Aslan sat beside me. His eyes were so unwavering, I almost found them frightening. But there was a sweetness about it too, a fire that made me want to cry.

“Child,” he said to me, “if you want to climb down, do so.”

My voice came out like a whimper. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m no longer a friend of Narnia,” I said.

The Lion said nothing to this. We watched the skies together. So peaceful, so calm.

“My heart got broken in my world,” I told him. “There is poverty and wars, and innocent people who get abused and killed daily. And there is so much narcissism and cynicism and egoism. It has left me sick. And people I loved, truly and deeply, hurt me.” I exhaled. “And so, you see…broken hearts cannot return to Narnia. Isn’t that right?”

Again, the Lion said nothing to this, not for a while. I almost fell asleep in his silence.

But my eyes flew open when he spoke.

“You grew older,” he told me. “You grew wiser of the evil that lurks in all worlds and places, even in yourself. This suffering does not mean your heart is broken, child. I can feel it beating stronger than ever. You need to know it, too. You are no longer a girl, but a young woman with her entire life ahead of her.”

“Yes,” I said. “And grown-ups can’t return to Narnia.”

“You can always return to Narnia,” he said. “But you are mistaken if you think Narnia only lies beyond this cliff’s edge.”

I reflected on his words—and saw the truth in them, like a light that suddenly enters a window.

Narnia is in me. It always has been. Because that is where I spent my childhood and learned to be.

A Narnian is never really outside of Narnia. They always have one foot in it.

But only if they want it to be that way. If they never forget.

And perhaps that was the reason why I was brought to Narnia in the first place. To share the Narnia inside of me with the rest of the world. To help others believe.

“Aslan.” I faced him, with tears brimming down my face. “Please…I want someone to love, someone to call my husband. I want to make kind friends. I want to procure health for my family. I want to keep creating poetry and stories and wonderful things. I want to keep defending the vulnerable, to fight for justice. I want the fire inside of me to never go out.”

The Lion stood, coming closer to me. His tongue licked my face, and I felt stronger than ever.

“Then do all of that and more, child,” he said. “But I ask for something in return.”

I nodded, waiting for his condition.

“Never forget about the Lion who loves you.”

Hello, all. I finished the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis recently. What beautiful, life-affirming fantasy stories. I believe these stories are not just for children, but for adults, too.

Do you also love Narnia? Please let me know in the comments!

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Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a town where rain fell year-round. In this rainy little town lived a young girl of marrying age who collected rainwater in small jars and kept them in her home. The townsfolk would often see her outside on a rainy day, holding out one of her jars under the sorrowful skies, gathering bundles of rain from above. They could see how sometimes those raindrops mingled with her tears.

Rumors sprouted of other queer habits of hers. Those who passed her in the markets said she smelled of jasmine and thyme; those who saw her at mass saw her not pale and forlorn as everyone else, but gazing at the altar with stars of wonder in her eyes, as if wanting to meet God. Why did she place wild roses in her hair? Why was she seen at midnight, dancing in the nearby woods?

Was there any reason to be this happy in a town that rained every day?

The town began to suspect that this young girl might be a witch.

One day, it was decided at a town hall meeting that a little boy would go to this young girl’s home to ask her about her jars of rain. For hours, they waited until the little boy returned with the answer. The boy repeated what she had told him:

I come out when the skies turn gray

Knowing my true love is far away.

I feel him in the water, I feel him like this

Knowing that from the rain falls his kiss.

I feel him in the mist, I feel him from above

Knowing that from the rain falls his love.

I feel him in the rain, that’s the way it must be

But I know that one day he’ll return to me.

This queer and delusional revelation further sent the town into turmoil, as they now fully believed the girl was involved with witchcraft. They begged the local parish priest to bring this matter to the powerful, strict hands of God, and to alleviate their panic, he visited the young girl to see for himself. After she told him what she had told the little boy, the parish priest was convinced she was possessed by Lucifer and sentenced her to be burned at the stake.

The next day, they placed her on the scaffold and, ignoring her pleas for mercy, set the stake on fire. But her witchcraft must have been powerful, so that the rain began to fall and smoothed over the fire into tiny embers before it could harm her. They tried again by barricading her inside her own wooden house and, again, ignoring her pleas for mercy, set the house on fire. But her witchcraft must have been powerful, so that the rain fell again and smoothed over the fizzling wood. They tried one last time by tying her to a tree deep in the woods and, ignoring her pleas for mercy one last time, set the tree on fire. The fire spread much too quickly for her witchcraft to save her, and when the ordeal was done, the town cheered.

For days onward, the town returned to its normal affairs. Yet come spring, they began to suffer great droughts. Not a single drop of rain graced their land. By the time it was autumn, no crops had grown to harvest, and they suffered a great famine in winter. When the year ended, many had died, and others had gone searching for a better life.

One day in early January, the Prince paid a visit to this desolate and wretched town. Many thought he had come to rescue them from their miserable fate; after all, this Prince was not only fair of face, but fair of heart, and his charity was known throughout the kingdom. Yet to their great surprise, the Prince told them he was searching the whole land to look for a girl who collected rainwater, saying:

I come to you with great dismay

Knowing my true love is far away.

I sent her my water, kissed her like this

Knowing one day we would return to bliss.

God sent her my care, sent it from up above

And I hoped that she could then sense my love.

I didn’t know how far away she was, or where,

But I knew that someday I would return to her.

The town soon learned that the Prince had harbored a forbidden love for the peasant girl, and that his father, the King, had exiled her to a place that his son could never know about, for he was never to see her again. Yet before they parted, he had promised her that he would be with her in every downpour and in every rain-shower, in every drizzle and in every storm. For he had prayed to God for it to be so, prayed for many months, and his prayer was answered.

The town, painfully ashamed of what they had done, revealed the truth to their Prince. In his despair and sorrow, the Prince wanted to punish them all with an eternal drought, but his heart was so pure and so forgiving that he could not bring himself to ask God for this.

Instead, he gave them a lesser curse: rain would fall in the town every day once more to remind them of the girl’s presence, for one should never judge how or where or why love comes about, but let it flow as easily and freely as rainwater.

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She sits at her desk—which is not really a desk, but a couch, or a patch on the grass, or a stone step in front of a museum, or an airplane seat—to ponder on the constellations of her mind and how to organize them. The place is inconsequential. She will write wherever she is.

There is one element that remains constant, however. Always, she starts with a notebook and a pen. It is essential for the architecture of her dreaming—the handwriting of it, that is. Pen to paper edifies her thoughts all the way to the sky. What type of pen, people sometimes ask, and she will give a rather supercilious smile. The type of pen does not really matter. Sometimes it is a fountain pen, other times a Bic pen. Whatever is nearby will do, as long as it is generous with its ink.

Above all, this woman wants to be resourceful. Not just with the materials themselves—with her words, with her manner of displaying them. Resourceful, all-expanding; that is what the heart is, and this woman, in her writing, wants to emulate the way the heart pumps blood to the entire system, giving it life. And so, genre is not a limitation. Form is not a limitation. Some days she will write prose, others poetry, and others essays.

Language is not a limitation. She will write in whatever language suits her best, English or Spanish. Sometimes, she will haul some works and their carriages to another language-home altogether, just to see how the migration feels on her tongue. Some day, she wishes to write in three languages, perhaps four. Perhaps five. She is unafraid of her multilingual being, because she knows writing itself is translation, a combing of the truths of the body until they are disentangled—or entangled further, depending on the objective.

She studies other industrious minds. Meticulously, she will spend hours reading, reading everything she can get her hands on. A writer is forever a reader. It is her first tome of knowledge in her craft. The second is life itself: the world and the brilliant, strange, luminous beings that inhabit it.

You might by now be wondering: what about the schedule? There is no schedule. This woman writes when she is compelled to write. Early morning, she might be writing. Late at night, she might be writing. This is chaotic, and often she wishes she could be as punctual to the ring of the writing-bell as others she admires. Alas, she does not work this way. At least, not yet.

Others, undoubtedly, get frustrated at her chaotic ways. As this woman has no Woolfian room of her own to write in, she is often exposed to writing in the open world, where others see her. And they chastise her in indirect ways, but ways she understands perfectly. This is not the time to be writing, she knows they want to tell her. You should be folding clothes, or working, or gossiping with me. But she knows that the time to be writing is always.

Yes, she forgot this law of herself for a very long time. Because writing is not the only vessel that moves her through the world, at some point, it was easy for her to scatter it into the wind like dead leaves. But always, as she focused on her other purposes—which were extroverted in nature—she would look into the locked attic of her imagination, and find her child-self there, writing on lined notebooks with a school pen by a sunlit window. And she dreamed of being that child again. Introspective. Knowing. Dreaming of better, kinder worlds.

As she grew up, she lost this. She was forced to trace back the snowy path in the woods. She was forced to ask: what happened? Why did I stop writing? And always, she found an answer. She had given too much of herself elsewhere. Scattering the dead leaves of her writing to the void meant scattering herself there, too.

So now she understands that even if others are screaming at her back—pay attention to me! Pay attention to me!—she will keep her eyes fastened to her pen and paper. This woman is ruthless with her attention nowadays. She learned to leave everything and everyone that distracts her from her writing. Some would say this is cruel of her. They would declare the woman a villain for saving herself.

Because she knows that her writing is a “good and perfect gift from above”, as Søren Kierkegaard put it. What moves her organs, her soul, her inner workings, and shapes her words has been given to her by God. She tries to keep the fruits of life, that which fuels her writing, near. And anything that places this divine calling in danger must be removed, loved from afar only.

In her chaos, in her continuous formation, she is called to love the world as it is consumed by wildfire. To heal the sick, to feed the sparrows. To love this mad world, love it through her writing. She understands her words as portals to a more loving world—or rather, to the world we know when it is at its most loving self.

And in writing it, her constellations might just crystallize into transformation.

I wrote this as a response for “Day of the ___ Writer” collaborative prompt hosted by ; originally I was not going to participate but I loved the entries to this collab so much, that I took and her kind tag to the prompt as an opportunity to join in. Please check out the growing mosaic of many lives.

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Hello! I wrote this story for the “Slice of Life” Valentine’s Contest hosted by . Enjoy and happy Valentine’s Day, may you find bundles of love and joy on this day.

I find my missing husband’s trail as I step barefoot into the kitchen for the second time that morning.

I can’t help it; a smile slips out of me as I follow its path. It runs like a golden thread through the mosaic floor, and up the counter to the basket of apples, the copper saucepans, the recipe books, the espresso machine, and the assortment of spices and oils.

Finally, I spot the trail continuing through the open window. Outside, the low branches bristle with a few golden leaves that land adrift on the sink.

“Hmm.” I place my hands on my waist.

I now know where my husband is.

My first steps outside the house are light, and the air is charged with quiet knowing. I pass through the arched gate to the garden, tucked away behind the stone cottage we call home. Daisies blow kisses at me as I have the urge to run, to find him right away.

But soon enough, I do. He is perched underneath the willow tree, observing the mossy green brook that runs through the garden. Even from far away, I can see that his eyes are as still as the water itself. There is a book on his lap, but I can’t tell what its title is from here.

As I reach him, I settle in beside him without saying a word. The willow forms a hood above us, almost a green shield, protecting us from cavernous sunlight. For a moment, we remain quiet, and I just draw circles around his tense shoulders.

“You didn’t eat your blueberry waffles,” I chastise him softly. “I made them with the nectar you love, mind you.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day in the mortal world, Psyche.”

My circle drawing stops. “I know that.”

A sigh ripples through the breeze, and I struggle to know if it is the willow whispering or my own husband, anxious. I bet on the latter, although sometimes it is hard to distinguish the natural world from his mythical ways.

“You don’t have to do it this year,” I say. “A mortal’s love is fickle, anyway.”

It’s what I always say, every year without fail. And, like every year, he shakes his head.

“No, it isn’t.” He stares at me. “Yours wasn’t.”

Even a thousand years later, his penetrating stare makes me catch my breath. His skin glows as honey spilling out of a beehive, his hazel eyes boring into mine. I know what he means. When I broke his trust and saw his true face by candlelight, all those years ago. When I was forced to descend into Hades at the hands of his mother and face the grueling stones and pits of the underworld to retrieve him. Those days are hazy now, drenched in wrath and pain and suffering.

Mercurial trials that are long behind us.

I lower my gaze, fiddling with my apron. “Not all mortals are like me.”

“But your existence itself proves that there can be others like you.” He faces the babbling brook, his long fingers entwining with mine. “Why do you think human beings fall in love?”

I think about it.

“It is the closest thing we have to touching the divine,” I say softly.

With that, he stands. His wings, that had previously been tucked in, unfurl, white and lustrous like those of a swan bathing in a river. They span his body like a cloak, and long shadows fall from them. I gasp as he leans down to kiss me on the forehead. His kiss ripples through my body.

“I am tired,” he says. “But I must go and do this, my love. They need to be reminded of love. Of the divine.” As he looks down at me, his eyes soften, and an amber-colored, boyish smile appears. “Please save those blueberry waffles for me. I can’t wait to try them when I come home.”

When I come home. That simple phrase fills my heart with spinning light. “I will.”

I watch Eros stride across the garden, his wings spreading until he is no longer there, but high up in the sky, joining the flock of egrets above. Standing, I shake off loose strips of grass that somehow made their way to my dress. I am about to head back into the kitchen when I almost stumble on something.

Cocking my head, I realize it is the book he was reading. Picking it up, I marvel at the title.

It reads: “All about love” by bell hooks. A book written by a mortal. My fingers leaf through it.

I smile as I see that the God of Love has highlighted his favorite phrases with slanted pencil lines.

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She flitted through my window one lonely Thursday afternoon. I caught her scent first; rosewater, like the elegant perfume my mother loved to wear.

Then, I saw her stumble in, her wings small like those of a robin, translucent like those of a glasswing butterfly. Unmediated by gravity, her little arms oscillated until she plopped herself on my wooden desk, leaning back against a half-finished mug of green tea.

I must have stared at her for hours. It was like getting an envelope delivered by mail-box; rare, foreign now, a sign of times long past. She looked at me with the tilt of her head, her curled hair speckled with hints of shimmering dust. Her eyes were the color of anchovies, gleaming with nets of curiosity—underneath them, what looked like sorrow.

“Hello,” she said. “Long time no see.”

Her voice sprang in my mind like a lucky clover. A pinkish color, one I recognized well.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her, almost annoyed.

“I’m your wonder. I’ve come back.”

I lifted the mug to my lips, which now sported a bemused smirk. The move made the small creature almost fall back, but she quickly recovered.

“Well. You’re too late,” I told her matter-of-factly, like a clerk telling a newly-arrived client that they were closing shop. Sorry. Sign says we close at nine.

And by nine, I mean nine-years-old.

“I’ve lived without you all these years, and I’ve been just fine. Splendid, even.” I sipped from the tea. It was stale and watery. “You can head back to your mushroom house by the woods, or wherever it is you came from. Scoot.”

My hand made to wave her away, but my wonder chirped. Again, a splatter of pink colored my vision.

“You’ve not lived at all, noodle-head,” she claimed with a plash of her pearly wings. “You can’t even tell what your tea tastes like!”

Noodle-head? I quirked an eyebrow at her. Peering down at my mug, I saw a honey-colored drink swishing in there. It was green tea, wasn’t it? Or perhaps oolong, or black tea? I didn’t know. At some point, the flavors of all had started to blend, and I no longer thought of the taste of each particular one.

In fact, I didn’t remember making the tea. I just knew it was part of my routine, which had also started to blend into one big, flavorless liquid. Wake up, go to work, come back to eat. Make tea after lunch. Sit down at the computer, type away.

That was my life. Checking off to-do lists and tackling tasks that needed to get done.

And at night, the routine continued: stare at the ceiling and think of the names of people who had wronged me, and how to get back at them. They whirled round and round in my head like a maelstrom, day in and day out.

I suppose I did notice how sick I was getting from it all. Every morning, the mirror showed me a greying face; a face that had lost all inklings of childhood. It was like staring into a casserole of colorless soup. Bland. Insipid.

“Thats right!” my wonder said. “Your life is a sad bowl of soup!”

A sardonic smile reflected on the surface of my green tea as I set down the mug.

“Alright.” I clapped my hands together. “A lot of time has passed since you went away. What can you do for me now?”

My wonder flew to the top of my head, sitting there like a crown. Somehow, that simple, gentle touch brought tears to my eyes. My sarcasm withered away, replaced by something stronger.

“Close your eyes,” my wonder said. “I’ll show you.”

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The horse did not know what running was. To truly run, that is, to feel the fields, the grass, the wind course through your body as it moved. To feel the world passing through you, and not just the world passing by.

He had been chained for so long. Beat and used up, until his weary bones were tired and wasted. But he knew the ancient truth about himself.

He was not a carriage horse, meant to move vehicles across cobblestone and lonesome streets.

He was not a destrier, not born to bring spear-carrying men face-to-face in jousting tournaments.

And he was definitely not a warhorse. No Emperor would sit on a saddle atop him, remembered by history and painted alongside victors in murals to be flocked to in museums.

He was made for more important things. To drink up from the basin of the river, allowing only the sun itself to paint over him with its tawny oranges. He was made to observe the breeze lapping at the peatlands, as soft as a grandmother’s touch.

Most of all, he was made to run. The wood snake had told him that. A creature of pine and silent comings, the snake had seen the horse at his lowest. She curled around his neck like a dotted vine and whispered in his ear: “I am shedding so you can run through fire. So why are you not doing so?”

The horse was helpless. His head lowered, his eyes sad as muddy trails. The snake spoke to him all year, and still he did not understand her message.

Until the clock turned a final time. The cycle was complete, and the snake's skin dressed the earth in flakes of ash and renascence. Inaction could no longer be an excuse for not living life.

An energy renewed infused the horse. With determination, he broke the chains that bound him. Before human hands could rope him back into them, he galloped far, far away. He heard the shouts follow him like shadows, but still he ran.

He knew it was not an impulse of a moment, although the flurry ached through his strong legs. It was slow work. It was necessary work. His nostrils flared, his muscles transforming.

At last, he saw the path of fire before him, alight like a sunset that refuses to hold the night.

And he ran.

Hello! I wrote this as motivation to get through the year 2026, which, in the Chinese zodiac, is the year of the Fire Horse. What this represents to me is that this is the year to move, to run, to feel free in our passions and creations.

May all your dreams and goals come true this year! 🔥🐎

As always, this story is 100% human-made. Enjoy!

The woman went to the frozen lake to find herself again.

That was what the magicked lake offered mortals: a reflection of your true self, the image of how your soul was made to look. Or at least that was what the villagers had said for weeks now, and she had heard of the folktale in passing. Not that she would ever ask them to confirm it. No one wanted to be near her, and how could she blame them? She snarled at whoever tried to approach her, gnashing her yellowed teeth. Often, she was seen at her hollow home, slamming the wooden shutters of the window closed if anyone dared to peek inside.

Yes, she was known as the Village Crone, and this title greatly offended her, sending her into an even deeper well of anger and resentment. She was not that old to be considered a Crone proper; at least, not as old as she appeared. After all, she was still of childbearing age. However, none of this seemed to matter, as she was always seen alone and desolate, without a family or companions to care for her.

She went out before dawn, when it was still dark outside, trudging through the snow with disgruntled puffs. A feeble hand gripped the rope attached to a sled that plowed behind her, and that was where she carried her skates. Her waymaking through the snow was unceremonious but determined. No one needed to see her, lest they laugh at her and humiliate her for believing in ridiculous stories told by unruly children.

Just the thought of it dotted her puckered cheeks with a flush. The Village Crone, of all people, believing in a magicked lake! It would surely be taken as a sign of the end times: approaching plagues, wars with neighbors, and whatnot.

But it was so—she believed because she had no other choice. She had lost all hope. Her skin had turned grayer than a dead seal’s skin, crumpled by time and fear. No one in the village could understand how her heart had shriveled into nothing more than a dark, plum-like pit, although they tried to guess the reason for it. Perhaps she was separated from a lover due to strict village laws, or her children had died in a fire a long time ago. No one could say why the Village Crone was the way she was; they could only witness the pale sadness that marred her features and slouched her gait, and that lingered in the air after her passing by.

She would never disclose the real reason, anyway. Trusting no one, loving no one, were her steadfast codes for survival in a cruel world. She would not let anyone have the key to her heart-lock.

But surviving like this felt terribly lonely. As years passed, she felt something was missing deep within herself. When she tried to dig up what that might be, she found nothing but emptiness.

So, that morning, she forced herself through the snow and a biting breeze. A pink sunrise already graced the hills, and snow folded like napkins on lampposts and house roofs. She sniffed as she toddled along, her breathing rough.

At last, she was at the lake. Swatting away trails of snow on a bench, she sat down. Methodically, she grabbed the skates from the sled. They were relics from another world entirely, a time when she would still smile at the sun—and the sun would smile back. As she slipped her socketed feet into the skates, she did not know what she feared most: that they no longer fit or that they still did.

They did fit. Tying them as tightly as she could, she sighed. The frozen lake waited for her, but she stayed seated. The sorrow of her wasted life coiled like a sailor’s rope in her stomach. She was as familiar with the feeling as with the night, as they both visited her when she was most vulnerable.

Finally gaining courage, she stood and stalked off to the lake. As she placed one foot in front of the other on the frozen water, she felt her knees wobble like logs under the pressure of a hearth; it had been so long since she had done this, and she flailed her arms forward. Still, her body held the memory of movement like a prayer, and soon she was gliding, catching up with the clockwise turns of the wind. A smile almost formed at the feeling of skating, but she tugged it down, not daring to dream or hope. The frozen water below her was thick and blue like a vein, but she refused to look at it, steering her steely eyes forward. Not yet.

At last, she was at the very center of the lake. From here, the village and its whispering judges seemed far away, insignificant. The sun made the shape of a half-coin over the horizon, cleaving itself on the snowy hills. Her heart drummed through her whole body as she looked down at the frozen water.

A young girl looked back at her with loving eyes. Her skin was lustrous like marble, rid of pockmarks. Her hair fell in a heavy braid, her head framed by a magnificent silk veil. But more than the rich garments or beaded jewelry, it was the smile that she wore that made the Village Crone gasp, her breath freezing midair. It was the brightest, most beautiful smile she had ever seen, and she felt like she had found a pearl at the bottom of a dark sea.

She brought a hand to her cheek; the reflection did so too. When she glided, her reflection did also, a colorful shawl trailing behind her like a rainbow across a clear sky. Nothing at all like her tattered rags. Could it be herself she was seeing as she truly was? Was her very soul being reflected to her?

It was impossible to believe. Hope struck her and doubled her over, even more painful than the fear that had accompanied her all these years. In fear, one could hide, but hope forced everyone into movement.

Yes, that was her, she decided. That was the girl she kept locked in the attic of her heart. The girl who pleaded with her every night to be let out.

For hours and hours, she drank up the reflection, memorizing every color, feature, and line. She did this until sunset came, and she had to head back to the village. She no longer cared if anyone had seen her; her breathing was spare but full of life. Never again would she forget her true self. What she had seen had transformed her for the rest of her days.

At the door to her home, she gazed at the last vestiges of sunlight, inhaling in her new life. With one last look at the sky, she smiled at the sun for the first time in decades.

The sun smiled back.

Check out the Monthly Evermore Theme hosted by .

Although I published my first poetry book in 2022 (in Spanish), I wasn’t yet aware of what to do with my poetry in English.

In 2024 (or late 2023?), my good friend encouraged me to publish some of my poetry in her literary magazine SIEVA Magazine, which is absolutely gorgeous in style and always looking for emerging writers (so, check them out!). I have always been super cautious about sharing my writing; I am not in the literary world by trade, so I didn’t understand the importance of publishing in literary magazines, and I had only done so with my poetry in Spanish.

“It’s a great way to get noticed,” she told me. Getting eyes on my work did not sound like a bad idea.

So, my first three poems to be published in a literary magazine (in English) came out in SIEVA’s second volume, “The Important Ones” (Winter 2024). The theme of the volume was to write about people who were important to us, or who have impacted us in a meaningful way. I wrote about Carlos (my fiancé), Jessie (my long-distance best friend), and Mary Oliver (a poet who has greatly influenced my writing).

“I Dreamt You Were Emperor of China”, “Bryant Park”, and “To Mary Oliver” (Sieva Magazine, 2024)

Being published alongside other great authors made me so excited about my work being noticed. Becoming more trustful of the publishing world, I began sending out my work in late 2024.

First poems in literary magazines (late 2024)

Full transparency: I did receive (and still receive) a lot of rejections when sending out my work. Rejection is an expected part of the writer’s journey; it should not stop any of us from putting ourselves out there. More determined than ever, I kept polishing and revising my poetry. Finally, in September of 2024, literary magazines started accepting my work. In November, The Basilisk Tree published “may madness” (inspired by Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, and which experimented with form) and, in December, Sontag Mag published two of my poems: “birdwatching” and “simmering” (leaning more nostalgic, Oliver-esque in nature).

“may madness” (The Basilisk Tree, 2024)

“birdwatching” and “simmering” (Sontag Mag, 2024)

2025, my breakout year

Although some of my poems had already been published the previous year, 2025 felt like I was finally starting to flourish. A lot of my pieces were being accepted, and the community built around them has been one of the best things to happen this year.

In January, Dust Poetry Magazine published my poem “stop gifting me bookmarks”, a whimsical poem on finding joy in the little things. It surprised me how much love it got on my social media platforms. This same month, a Mexican brand called “Salomé” designed a dress named “Eugenia”, based on me and inspired by one of my poems in Spanish, “Catedrales” (Cathedrals).

“stop gifting me bookmarks” (Dust Poetry Magazine, 2025)

Dress “Eugenia” crafted by “Salomé”, inspired by my work and my poem, “Catedrales” (Cathedrals), which I also modeled for.

In February, Stone Circle Review published “persephone’s descent”. I have always been fascinated by the classic myth of Hades and Persephone, and I wanted to write it from Persephone's perspective, as the one who inspires fear and awe in Hades and others.

“persephone’s descent” (Stone Circle Review, 2025)

In March, one of my poems in Spanish was also re-published by Perpetuo, a literary magazine founded and managed by one of my good friends here on Substack, José Luis Sabau. Check them out:

I know, I know, this article was about my poetry in English. I don’t care anymore. Go practice your Spanish.

“Almas Gemelas” [Translation: Soulmates], (Perpetúo, 2025)

April arrived in all its Spring glory, and it was a busy, busy month. Five of my poems were published this month in various literary magazines.

• “I See Baba Yaga” was published by Kaleidotrope, finally breaking the curse of the uncapitalized titles and poems written without capital letters. This was the first poem that I was paid for, so that is a big accomplishment for me!

• boats against the current published my poem “Attention Deficit”. I was diagnosed with ADHD last year and wanted to craft an enchanting poem that reflected the experience, which often feels like being lost (lost where, you might ask? Who knows).

• Crowstep Journal published two of my pieces: “telekinesis” and “arrival”. These were written at a time when I was reflecting on AI’s role in the world (hence the theme of “telekinesis”), and “arrival” is a testament to how it feels when gloomy September arrives.

• Finally, my poem “young girl describes her dream husband” was published by The Hooghly Review. More on this poem later.

“I See Baba Yaga” (Kaleidotrope, 2025)

“Attention Deficit” (boats against the current, 2025)

“telekinesis” and “arrival” (Crowstep Journal, 2025)

In June, my poem “Contemporary Art” was published by The Berlin Literary Review, which has to be one of my favorite literary magazines out there. The way the magazine conveys the quiet aching of human experience is so profound, I highly recommend reading it. Publishing here was also special to me, as Berlin, as a city, holds a very dear place in my heart. Fun fact: this poem was handwritten in Berlin back in 2022! Who would have thought it would end up in “Berlin” again?

This same month, Twin Bird Review published my esoteric poem “could heaven be the floating orb on my neck?” which came to me as I was listening to a podcast on Christian architecture and its foundations.

“Contemporary Art” (The Berlin Literary Review, 2025)

“could heaven be the floating orb on my neck?” (Twin Bird Review, 2025)

This ends my year in published poetry, as in Fall of 2025, I registered for my Master’s at Columbia as a full-time student (previously part-time) and did not even have time to breathe properly. Still, I have been writing and revising my work, and I will continue to send it out to literary magazines in 2026.

My first “Best of the Net” and “Pushcart Prize” nominations

One of my greatest honors of 2025…I was nominated for “Best of the Net” and the “Pushcart Prize” for 2026! This is incredible news for me, as I have not been nominated for these prizes before. Thank you, The Hooghly Review, for nominating my piece, “young girl describes her dream husband”, for these prizes. Regardless of whether I win or not, being nominated already feels like a great stepping stone in my career as a poet, and I feel grateful that the magazine saw the poem's potential and value as deserving of such prizes.

This poem was written as a reflection on “mythical husbands”. It is quite often that, lounging around with my girlfriends, they will describe their “perfect guy”…what qualities would he have, if he existed? Some might say he would be attentive, kind, or drive a nice car. I decided to write about this concept and give it a fairytale twist, turning it into a piece that is a little bit cheeky, a little bit mysterious, giving the “dream husband” more and more fantastical qualities. Needless to say, I wrote this before getting engaged…not the first time I have manifested something through writing. They do say poets are magicians.

“young girl describes her dream husband” (The Hooghly Review, 2025)

Final stats

All in all, I have published 16 poems (not counting “Cathedrals”) in literary magazines. My goal for 2026 is to publish more, as many as I can.

If you are interested in publishing poetry in literary magazines, here are my recommendations:

• Don’t get bogged down by rejections. Believe in your craft, your voice, your work. As a general rule, if one of my poems gets rejected more than five times, I look at it again and polish it. Ask for feedback from the lit mags if it’s not too expensive for you; they often help a lot. That said, your poem will always find the right lit mag for it.

• Look for magazines that accept emerging writers if you haven’t been published in lit mags before. Great sources to find lit mags that are open to submissions are Chill Subs and Duotrope, and calls on X or Substack.

• Read literary magazines. There’s a sentiment going around that goes something like: “A lot of writers don’t want to be readers”. I love reading from literary magazines; there really are a lot of gems hiding in them, ready to be read. You also get a feel of what each literary magazine likes to publish and their distinct “voice” (no, they are not all the same). I also feel like fellow poets should be supporting and reading each other more.

• Write a lot, write frequently. This one goes without explanation.

If you like my work and would like to read my poetry in Spanish (or practice your Spanish!), consider buying my book “Náufragos” (Castaways), published in 2022.

Hello. This short story is part of the “Cozy Winter Fantasy Prompt Challenge” hosted by I had a lot of fun writing this, and it serves as great practice as I finish up other stories I am working on. Thank you for hosting, Tamsin!

The grandfather clock tolled his brother’s arrival.

Autumn scowled as he heard the pesky sound echo through the shelves of his study, rattling the books, glass cabinets of whiskey bottles, and stacks of vinyls. What a nuisance, he thought. Still, he did not stand from his desk. His fountain pen scribbled away on sheet after sheet of paper, his hand clutching it like a lifeline. Ink already marred his crooked fingers, which were as splintery as the branches that represented his Season.

“Brother…” an ancient, deep voice creaked through the window, threatening to shatter the glass.

Autumn tried to ignore it, his bushy eyebrows scrunched as he scoured over his written work. It was never finished; it would never be finished.

His older brother always came too soon. Too soon, before his work was done.

Please, just one more page, a verse, a word…

“Brother…” cracked the voice again, this time splitting the edges of the glass window.

Slamming the pen on the desk, Autumn rose from his leather chair, walking furiously to the window. As soon as he opened it, a chill strong enough to kill a man swept over the room, blowing out his perfectly placed candlesticks. Where once the study had a cozy, inviting warmth, now the cold stole the colors and their temperatures like a merciless thief, dimming the light to almost nothingness.

“Must you always do that?” Autumn chided his oldest brother.

“It…is…time…” Winter said, his voice like a tree being sawed in half by an axe. “You…must…let…me…rule…Human…kind…now…”

Autumn observed the eldest of the Seasons with unbridled disdain. He was tall, taller than the buildings around them, his body shining with a pearly iciness. His long, aquiline nose had always disturbed him, even as a child, and he dared not look too long into those cold, sunlit eyes that never blinked. On his head, as always, he wore a crown of frozen cherries.

Shivers threatened to overtake him, especially as behind the giant silhouette of his brother, he saw mountains upon mountains of snow, piling up everywhere: on windowsills, lampposts, and park benches. He had not wanted to see it as the days passed by. Had avoided looking out the window when he saw the yellow leaves disappear one by one.

But it was undeniable. Winter was arriving slowly, but surely.

“You always come earlier than you should,” Autumn protested, wagging his fingers. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back again. “You never let me finish my work!”

Winter’s mouth cracked like ice when he spoke. “Your…work…is…vital…brother…but…everything…must…end…one…way…or…another…”

“Don’t you listen to me? You don’t let me end things. I was placing humans in an elevated state of consciousness. They could stay at home with their families, cherish them. They could read endlessly and create all day long. And now, just before they can realize the meaning of it all, you come in with your unbearable cold and your weariness and your hunger.”

As he said the words, he thought of Humankind having to relinquish the pursuit of Thought with Winter’s coming. It was impossible to be creative or conscious when you had mouths to feed, stock to store, and cold nights to endure.

It would simply not do. It would not do at all.

“That…is…the…way…of…the…Cycle…” Winter said. “Your…brothers…do…not…complain…as…much…”

Autumn scoffed and thought of his younger brothers. There was boyish Spring, still toying with flowers and honey bees. And of course, who could forget handsome, sun-kissed Summer, smiling at passersby with the face of a young man and waltzing away on warm nights?

No, they would not complain when it was time for them to rest. They were too young, too lively, and unthinking. They offered no resistance to the Cycle. Only Autumn.

“You…have…written…your…Season…excellently…” Winter said. “Now…let…me…speak…mine…”

Speak, he said. Because Winter was as old as the stories told in caves, surrounded by brittle fire. Just like his younger brothers, Winter would never understand his writings, his ink-tainted pages. Not fully. It was not their preferred form to accompany their Seasons.

Which is why they would never understand why it always felt unfinished, incomplete.

A transparent, snow-worn hand slipped through the window, large and menacing. Autumn stepped away from it, almost knocking over a lamp. As Winter uncurled his long, icicle-like fingers, slivers of snow fell on the carpet like sugar. In his palm was an inconspicuous teacup that held a milky-white substance.

“I…leave…you…with…the…snowtea…and…my…trust…” Winter said, placing the teacup on a coffee table. “Remember…our…work…is…never…done…only…the…Cycle…ends…”

And then Winter vanished in a blizzard of snowflakes that fell like stars on the wooden surfaces.

Autumn sighed and eyed the snowtea wearily. Eventually, he brought it to his lips, drinking it in slow turns. It tasted of ginger and cinnamon, which was not to his dislike. No, the bitterness stemmed from elsewhere.

He looked at himself in the mirror, at his knitted vest and harsh smile lines and receding hairline peppered with white hairs. No matter how hard he tried to prove himself, he would never be as mature as his older brother. It required an ancient wisdom he simply did not hold. He was still more of the Human world than of the Spirit world.

Suddenly, he drank the warm tea in one sip and sat down on a velvet couch, crossing his arms over his stomach. He did not resist when he fell deeper and deeper asleep, trying not to think of how he would have to write everything from the beginning all over again when he woke up.

If I really think about it, I don’t believe I came to the city to escape myself.

No, I see myself everywhere, expanding and globular, a giant water bubble about to burst, taking the buildings and the people walking in its buoyancy. Like a balloon in a Thanksgiving Parade.

I used to be great. I used to climb all the way up myself and, at the same time, stare down at myself from above. Never have I seen the mirror of myself. Those eyes that escape scrutiny, shadowed from the sun of the self.

In New York, this hiding is no longer possible. Everywhere, I am exposed as I am: too slow, too driven by impulses and stimulations. Too wanting, too needy. Too shattering, covering the edges with ringed hands.

Just a few days ago, I took a shower with hot water. I had not done this in more than a year. New York allows me this: small kindnesses, with a shiver of a darkening truth. How calming it feels, how soothing, to enable myself warmth after living in a cold tunnel, scraping for what I believe I deserve.

And do I deserve this, this city? A city that prides itself on resilience, in being born again? I don’t feel like Im living differently. I feel like I am repeating deep patterns, weaving myself deeper and deeper into the fabric of my own compliance.

And am I not supposed to go out, explore this life, this city, without carrying myself everywhere? Let this city take me where it wants to, demand of me what it can, take over my body like a crescent wave.

If I burst, let it be here, running through sewer-wide gaps; befriending the rat-like unknown. I am not unacquainted with darkness. I have seen it evolve in me, in my stomach blooming like a night garden. Frogs leap there sometimes, like over a moon-hung pond.

But here, in this monster of a city, I’d like to rest myself.

This piece leans more literary than some of my other works. I hope you enjoy it regardless. Please like and comment!

Don’t look at them, my mother would chide me as we passed the children in the glass boxes. It was inevitable that we should pass them; our way to school every morning forced us to go past the town square. And in the town square, the Gallery of Mischievous Children would be on full display.

I always kept my head down, careful not to find myself lost in the eyes of the punished. But always, I would feel their gazes on my back like raining stones. Even if they were not looking at me…they were. I could sense it.

As soon as I was in school, I forgot all about it, reciting the National Scriptures and keeping quiet as the lecturer taught us the ways of the new world.

But one night, as my mother scraped the lentils off the bottom of a tin can to add to my plate, my thoughts crawled back to the Mischievous Children. I asked: How do I avoid becoming one of those, mother?

She gave me one of her lukewarm smiles, as if she wanted to smile sweetly, but bitterness kept tugging it down by the sides.

Just keep being a good boy, she said.

After dinner, she tucked me into bed and kissed my forehead. But I couldn’t sleep. Be a good boy, she said. What did that mean? Then the guilt would come and fold itself between the thin, holed-in bedsheets.

Because I wasn’t a good boy. I would often steal oranges from Peter’s house if I was hungry enough. Peter was always well-dressed, and his house looked clean, and he always had oranges.

I also lied a lot. I lied to my instructors about not doing the homework. I lied to other adults when they asked me if I understood why the new world was much better than the old world. Yes, I would say, and nod as if I did know. I lied to my mother when I told her I was fine.

And worst of all, I looked away from the poor children stuck in those ugly glass boxes.

I remember how the guilt left me restless. I stood and wormed my way to the window of our small, high-rise apartment. Even from this far away, I could see the Gallery of Mischievous Children. Most of them were sitting, their chins on their hands, as if waiting on someone. They didn’t look mischievous to me, just sad. Abandoned. How long ago had they been fed? Were they allowed to go potty?

I don’t know how it happened, but in that moment, one of the children caught me looking. It was a girl, raising her head at me. From afar, her eyes were sorrowful pools of longing.

For once, I didn’t lower my gaze.

Heya! This one is a little sadder than my other pieces. Let me know what you think in the comments.

It’s a sign of the times, the old woman thought as she watched young boys scale up the bridge and spray-paint its dirty facade.

A sign of the times, she thought again, yes, because back in my day, we would just let the gray buildings be gray. And that was that. No one fussed about color or leaving their mark.

Although now that she thought more about it, she did once carve her name on a beautiful red oak along with Lisa’s, during the summer of 1951. How fresh they felt back then, and light, like apples in a flea market.

And back then, her mother would love to paint her bedroom walls a deep sea blue. It wasn’t fashionable at the time, as everyone loved patterned wallpaper. But her mother dreamed of the ocean, of submerging herself in it, of swimming with sea lions and killer whales, and of exploring coral reefs, as she had once seen them in a lifestyle magazine.

But still, the old woman thought to herself, we wanted color, we craved color. But we never demanded it. We never imposed it on others, certainly.

Although once, when she was in her twenties, a man stroked her cheeks, which he said were the color of cherries dangling from low branches in the midst of a long winter. How he loved color, that man. How he starved for hope. I want to bottle your light like I would a firefly, he told her once through wine-induced laughter, but she didn’t know if he meant it then. She came to learn that he did, and would try to bottle it for the rest of her life until he died.

The old woman leaned back on her bench, placing her walking stick to the side. The park was lonely, visited only by sparrows and a few quiet wanderers. Up there, on the bridge, the boys joked over their poorly drawn graffiti, pushing each other. Even from far away, she could distinguish their bright, light-washed faces, like coins glistening under a setting sun.

She sighed. Perhaps it’s not so much an imposition, she relinquished. If they want to gift their color to the world during these trying, turbulent times, let them.

Let them.

Hello there! It seems like every time I fall into a new semester of grad school, I fall behind on posting on here. Thank you for reading anyway, and pardon my inconsistency.

“Why won’t you sing for me, little nightingale?”

She whines in tune with the wood pine’s symphony—the luster of twilight glistens on the adorable crease on her forehead. Rosy. Radiant. The stars themselves glow for her tonight. The moon is her most devoted worshipper.

She always does this.

“Why won’t you sing for me, little robin?”

“I don’t wish to.” My voice is a drum in this clogged air. The fragrance of sweet cypress nearly burns my lungs.

“I do everything for you,” she cries, “I bring you crumbs of white bread for you to eat. I bring you fresh stream water for you to drink. I bestow you with the finest silk and lace ribbons for you to wear on your scarlet wings, and pretty flowers to keep you company, and music every night to tickle your ears. ”

A cricket plays its violin strings below a wisteria tree. Its speckled vines interweave to the rhythm of the hollow sounds of my body.

I yearn to sing.

But not here. Not for her.

“Why do you do this?” She chokes in her sobs, her face painted with trailing tears. Her petite fingers are trembling now. “I love you! I cherish you fully and unconditionally, to the very last feather on your spine! Why do you hate me so, little bluebird? Why do you do this?”

I look at her, and I can almost sense the palpable beat underneath her chest as she inhales. Opening my beak, I say, as soft as a butterfly’s wings:

“You are too blind in your love to see that your chains murder my song.”

She screeches and cries until sunset rises and the first drops of morning dew pour on the honeysuckle. Inconsolable, she runs away, becoming a blur in my memory, a phantom, a wilted rose in the distance.

Tomorrow, she will be back.

Gilded bars surround me as the hours pass. Blood pulsing like the strings of a violin. I wish I could soar far beyond the cotton-shaped clouds and join my siblings’ chirping, so high up in the air and so loud my eardrums nearly burst. I was born to be happy. I was born to be free.

In this abyss of broken hearts, I wait until those golden bars snap free. Until my wings unfold.

Only then can I sing once more.

When I first started this Substack, I didn’t know where I was going with it. I only knew that I had a notebook filled with page after page of short fiction, and I wanted to publish it somewhere.

The more I read and interact with people on Substack, the more hopeful I feel about the publishing and humanities world. Here, I feel inspired not only to share my writing with this lovely community but also to discover and explore other writers who pour their heart and soul into their pieces. I journey through the robotic, stale, corporate world every day—as a lot of you do—and coming here feels like sitting on a very comfortable couch and opening a newspaper. Here on Substack, I lean back, relax, and learn something new. New ways to write. New ways to imagine the world.

Even though I still don’t know where I’m going with this Substack page (which I might branch out beyond flash fiction to write about books I love, writing tips…who knows), I do know I’m enjoying falling down the rabbit hole of stories and ideas. I’m enjoying following the wondrous path through this enchanted forest of writers, thinkers, and dreamers. Thank you, subscriber, for finding that same kind of wonder in my work.

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To celebrate 100 subscribers—which to some might not be much, but for an aspiring novelist, it means everything—I want to share some of my poetry. I usually reserve my poetry for literary magazines (if they accept them…if you submit to lit mags regularly, you know what rejection feels like), but I felt like this poem in particular illustrates perfectly how I feel about this milestone.

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, and I hope you stay because there’s more to come!

The Only Way Out Is Through

That is the curse of the human body.

We can’t fly over perfect problems.

We can’t squiggle ourselves under burrows

and resurface from the cracks in the earth,

leaving our shed skin behind.

We can only go through,

arrowing with the sharp tips of our hearts

through the fences, through the thick forest,

through thoughts, through canyons,

through bodies, through front porches,

through gulps of air, through thorns,

Look at us, flickering lights with firefly wishes,

leaving bruises the size of calderas,

sizzling hot to the touch.

But at least we made it through to the other side.

At least we made it. Not over, not under—

Through.

Thanks again for subscribing, see you next Thursday with a new short story!