"Rest Easy" - Published in Defiant Scribe August 2019
Victoria knew she was going to die today. And that was fine.
She set her alarm to play the song “Africa” by Toto. When it went off, she liked the sound of it so much that she just let it play, over and over, until the man in the apartment next to hers began to slam his fist against the wall between them. But even that couldn’t get her out of bed. It wasn’t until her temples swelled and burned like a pipe about to burst that she knew it was time to get moving.
As she brushed her teeth—for the joy of it rather than anything else—she inspected the contents of her bathroom counter. Notable items included a few bottles of painkillers and an old razor. Below that, in the cabinet, there must’ve been at least a few mostly-empty bottles of cleaning fluids. None of that mattered to her, though. She had no plans to kill herself today.
"‘Mannar in Retrospect, By Cyprus Profio’" - Published in Fiction Pool, December 2020
As the summer winds down like the final chirps of a dying music box, it is a time to put away your Beach Reads in favor of something more challenging. Gone is the season of inoffensive thrillers and grocery-store romance novels. It’s time for sweaters and blazers, armchairs angled near a roaring fireplace with a cup of something hot and sweet steaming close by. And for such a sophisticated and thought-provoking environment, it’s up to the right book to truly set the mood.
For me that’d usually be something by Kurt Vonnegut, or perhaps Milan Kundera. But for this new Autumnal season the public has made their wants very clear, and they no longer crave dusty old novels written by authors now more dust than man.
They want Rozene Mannar. There’s an amount of irony in that statement, considering the way she went out. But that’s probably cruel to say. I’m not here to talk about the life or death of Miss Mannar (Even when she was married, she was still Miss Mannar – but I digress), I’m here to discuss her book Roses on the Shore, which has been on the lips and shelves of every bibliophile since it was published post-mortem.
"The Art of Depression" - Published in ArtsEarth, December 2024
Depression has followed me throughout my whole life.
For most of my development it was the little squiggle in your eye that shifts and vanishes as soon as you focus on it. The mania was much more prevalent in my mental illness for the longest time. It turned me into some kind of gay lady Icarus, soaring awe-struck on wings made out of rolling papers and bundles of dried sage, before plummeting down just as majestically.
Depression was my ocean. It was boundless, both cloyingly warm and deathly cold. Treading water in its depths was like waking up in the morning after a fitful night’s sleep. You’re still tired and very achey, and the covers pooled around you are so cozy. What’s the harm in staying in another hour, another day, another week? It’s not like anyone’s waiting for you. If they are, they should know better.
"The Musee de Caravalho" - Published in ArtsEarth, March 2020
These days, it’s vital to think about perspective.
It’s been about a year since the start of the COVID-19 lockdown and – if I’m being completely honest – I’m sick of talking about it. There’s only so long you can live in a crisis before it becomes tedious, and by this point we all know the tragedy. We’ve forwarded our mail to the tragedy and stocked it with all our favorite snacks. And there’s an aspect of futility in clinging to pre-pandemic aspects of life – like, for instance, a column reviewing art exhibits in a world where the doors of museums and galleries are closed.
It’s a time to be creative. But god, I’m so tired of being creative, of adapting to a still-shifting New Normal. How am I supposed to write in a world like this, and in a column where I’m not even allowed to swear? These articles would go by a lot smoother if I got to spend a small paragraph listing my favorite profanities – you know, just to let some steam out.
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