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[foxeswritefiction-blog]

@bambiieyesndthickthighs i lurv my gorlfriend 

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

yo dis me

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

The Afterlife in the Sky

I watch stun grenades, bricks and Molotov cocktails fly across the screen, people scream and flee from the corrupt Ukrainian police and I'm only able to understand and comprehend what is happening through the English subtitles on the screen. Protesters toss tires into fires, causing thick, black smoke to billow up to the milky way and suffocate the cosmos, as well as the corrupt Berkut police ruthlessly killing peaceful citizens.

Winter on Fire is as cinematic as it is heartbreaking, and I have to remind myself the bloody bodies on screen are real people, and this isn't an action-packed dystopian Hollywood movie; the brains spilled across the asphalt, the blood running down their faces, the gunshots, the screams, they're all real— there aren't props or sets made by professionals, but barricades, recycled and makeshift and finely crafted by those defending themselves against the Berkut. They wave their blue and yellow flags atop their shelters and wear pots and pans on their heads, and I have to tell myself again, "There is nothing artificial about this. This is real."

I think about these people before the Ukrainian Revolution. I wonder if they feared for their lives before Maidan became a symbol of dissent, if now, they look over their shoulders skeptically or stiffen during police encounters; and then I wonder— what about those lost in Maidan? What about the 125 lives taken in Maidan? Or the 6,000 and counting lives lost in the war following Winter on Fire. Millions of people send smoke to the sky along with their compatriots' souls lost in battle; Muslim, Catholic, and Christian alike pray to the God of their understandings.

Ukraine is in mourning every morning and evening and some are still searching for those lost in Maidan, those never found or uncovered from kidnappings, and I wonder where they went. Why can't they be found? I see them hoisted onto stretchers and zipped into body bags, I see them stowed in the back of ambulances and whisked away at unusual speed, but I don't know where they go.

☄

The Incas believe the milky way or Mayu is a river connecting heaven and earth, it is said the river flows from the Vilcanota in Peru. They say it is the road our loved ones walk in the afterlife to cross into the celestial realm in the sky. It is believed one visits the Hanan Pacha (the upper world) in their dreams.

The Incas celebrated a ceremony called Inti Raymi which translates to "sun festival." Inti Raymi is celebrated in June winter solstice and centers around the sun god Inti; the festival is believed to be the day when the Vilcanota aligns with the Mayu causing heaven and earth to come together and the sun to rise and set in the milky way.

Inti Raymi, the celebration of the sun god, is the largest festival in Inca religion. Today the festival takes place on June 24th, the last day of the Incas winter solstice, which technically begins on the 21st. The celebration of Inti Raymi is full of song and dance and fire rituals, the Incas painted their faces yellow and adorned their heads with deer antlers and doubled them as instruments.

☄

I remember how fervently my grandma, who I called Manna, believed in heaven. She believed she was invited and papa and my sister and my mom and me, she didn't think my dad would ever make it, but prayed for him anyhow. She always said she knew she would go to heaven when she died, and I remember unable to comprehend a life without her, which led to vivid fever dreams about her dying from various causes. I remember calling her several times in the middle of the night for reassurance she'd live forever.

I remember she'd always tell me everyone has to die, because that's the funny part about life, to which I would cry until she calmed me down, hushed me and instructed me to look out the window at the moon, and I remember pressing my face up against the chilled glass and spotting the full, white moon just outside my bedroom window.

"Are you looking at the moon?" she said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Okay, good," she said. "Now listen to me sweetheart, we are looking at the same moon."

"Really?" It hadn't occurred to me.

"Yes, really. And we'll always be looking at the same moon. No matter where I am."

I remember her telling me not to worry about her dying because eventually I'd meet her in heaven and I remember asking, "can we meet on the moon?"

☄

President Yanukovych resigned at the dissenting demand of Maidan, and the celebration that ensued paid tribute to those lost in Maidan. The people applauded at the announcement on that Yanukovych resigned and re-elections would take place in May, and they cried and sang for their freedom, proudly waving their blue and yellow flags, with tears of joy tearing through their matching facepaint.

The beauty in the film is restored, after mass bloodshed and war, I can see the beauty of Maidan. I can Maidan as a place of togetherness, not a war torn city. In Ukraine, the passion for freedom outweighs the fear of oppression.

They fill the memorials with assorted rose bouquets and prayer candles and family photos and Ukraine flags and priceless mementos, mourning and thanking their loved ones for risking their lives for the freedom and future of Ukraine. Muslim, Catholic, Buddhist, Jewish and atheist pray together as one, honoring their Ukrainian brothers and sisters.

Ukraine celebrates through the night, with soulful music and festival lights shining into the heavens in lieu of  billowing smoke from the winter on fire. I wonder, when the smoke dissipates and the lights go up in Maidan, do the souls of those lost go with them?

☄

While the Incas celebrate the sun I wonder where Mama Quilla is. Mama Quilla is the goddess of the moon, marriage, the menstrual cycle, Inti's wife and sister, and protector of women.

Mama Quilla is the epitome of feminism in Inca religion and is praised today, particularly by women. The Incas believe Mama Quilla's lunar eclipses were shadows of animals pouncing on her and attacking her; they responded by yielding their weapons of the lunar phases and threw rocks to help fend the animals off; and they collected silver from the ground and believed she shed silver tears on them.  

On Inti Raymi, I wonder if she is full of life and gleaming white over Peru, or if she is a silver waning crescent hidden by the Mayu, ample with stardust and spirit animal constellations, as it flows from Vilcanota to the upper world. I wonder if she sees the souls of those who have passed float through the Mayu to the Hanan Pachu, and I wonder if she floats too.

☄

I remember sitting beside Manna's chair in the dead of night, it was my turn to watch her even though my family urged me to sleep and rest and not 'take it upon myself to take care of her'. I remember when I began to drift off to sleep, my forehead pressed against the arm of her chair, I woke up as soon as she did. Her eyes opened and looked straight ahead at the small night light blinking in the bathroom. She let a small sigh escape her dry lips and she croaked for me, I asked her if she needed water, she didn't say yes or no, all she said was, "It's time."

I frantically pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and held my phone up to the constellation of words scattered across the page and read through a rushing river of tears. I told her everything I'd planned to tell her before she went.

I remember promising to never let a man treat me poorly, and if Josh, my boyfriend at the time, did anything to hurt me I would stomp him out with my combat boots, like she always promised to do for me. I remember promising to graduate from college, no matter how badly I want to drop out and runaway. I remember promising to write about her always, and to pick up where she left off with her memoir and to pursue my dreams in lieu of financial stability. Her eyes glazed over and opened again, she perked up at the invisible presence that watched over us both and I tried not to let my tears inhibit my words.

I told her I loved her, I think I told her 20 times. I promised to be kind to my father and my sister though our relationships were fleeting. I promised to always look at the moon when I missed her and to name a star after her.

And I remember when the time came, to name a star, it was 15 minutes after I'd heard she passed and I had finally emptied myself of my tears for the day; I looked up at the night sky and for the first time, I was unsatisfied. I couldn't name a star after her because I couldn't find one good enough. I remember staying outside on my balcony for hours, lying on my back and criticizing the stars as they shot across the sky like a constellatory light show; with each star that fell from the sky, to wherever, I wondered where she went.

I remember the third time I tried acid. I was alone and outside, watching the sky during a meteor shower. I remember seeing patches of the milky way, aural blue watercolor splotches glittered with stardust. "Is that real?" I asked allowed to no one in particular, but was answered with a chill wind creeping up my spine and a star shooting through the galaxy.

I didn't decide the milky way was real and not just a hallucination, but the universe decided for me, and I named her Sandi.

☄

I wonder if Manna has seen the milky way, or the souls from Maidan. I wonder if she's in heaven, and I wonder if I reject or accept the idea of heaven or spirits crossing into it through the Mayu. I wonder if I'll ever know where Manna went or if I'll meet her on Mama Quilla when my time inevitably comes. I wonder why we go where we go when we die, and if she's with Ukrainians or the Incas, or both, because it seems the only requirement for access to heaven is to fervently believe in something, which every fiber of your being, so much it makes you cry or risk your life. 

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

The sun lingers in the sky before drastically setting, leaving the sky light and navy like acid washed jeans. Sumner stops in the road, setting his backpack down to search for his flashlight. He plucks the small, blue plastic cylinder from his backpack and turns it on. Headlights flash in the distance, illuminating Sumner as a car flies down the road. He grabs his backpack and lunges toward the grass, he trips over his shoelaces and crashes into the earth, rolling off the shoulder as the car passes and blares its horn. He sits upright in the grass and smacks his flashlight until it flickers on, the dim orange light reveals a bush of curly, fire engine red hair. Sumner squints and scoots through the dirt to get a closer look. The mangled mess of hair snaps up, and looks directly at him, a waxy, off-white, painted clown mask with an impish grin stares him down, unmoving. Sumner trains his flashlight on the clown, wavering slightly but crouched and frozen in the grass, as if he didn't move the clown wouldn't register his presence. The clown, dressed in traditional circus garb; a red jumpsuit with white polka dots, the neckline decorated with a white, lace jabot, rainbow pin striped socks and oversized red shoes— stands upright and tilts his head as he peers at Sumner through the tiny eye slits of his mask. He shuts his flashlight off, hoping the night will conceal him enough to run the last mile home. But before he readies himself to bolt down the road, the clown pulls a small laser from his pocket and turns it on and trains the small green light on Sumner, circling it around his head and playfully turning it on and off. Sumner hears shuffling through the grass and hastily turns his light on, expecting the clown to be running towards him, but he only sees a faint bushel of his red, curly mop bouncing into the darkness of the forest before Sumner can no longer see him through the maze of trees. He hoists his backpack over his shoulders and crawls back onto the street, running home down the road. #fiction #shortstoryexcerpt #fictionexcerpt #creativewriter #creativewriting #southcarolina #horrorstory #horror #clowns #scarystory (at Huger, South Carolina)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

The sunlight seeps in through the opening of my rain fly and I lay back and think about my dream of the forest spirit coming to me. Through the mesh of my tent I looked into the darkness and saw a deer strutting toward me, radiating an opalescent aura. I sat up from my sleeping bag, hardly trembling, too intrigued to see this animal as a danger to me. The closer he came the brighter he beamed until he lit up my tent and the trees. Then the aspens cheered while the mountains sang because the great forest spirit had come again. I found myself crying, overcome with belonging. I reached out to touch my tent as the forest spirit pressed his head against it. My hand glowed from his touch and I felt myself transcend, into the natural world where humanity began. He welcomed me back and allowed me to stay, in the great forest kingdom in Santa Fe. With a touch of his breath flowing through my tent, he sends me into my sleeping bag. And in my dream I closed my eyes to go to sleep for the night, only to be woken again, by the sunlight seeping in. #creativewriting #writing #writer #camping #forestspirit #dream #santafe #dreamwriting #creativewriter #fiction #nonfiction #cnf #instagramessay #microessay #surrealism #princessmononoke (at Aspen Vista Trail)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

Along the muddy Mesa, I carefully maneuver over sunken tire tracks & puddles that qualify as small ponds. The Toyota spins horizontally across the road & I spin my wheel 360 degrees in order to control the vehicle. John Denver howls through my dusty speakers & I half-heartedly hum in a slight attempt to calm myself amidst the torrential roads, "almost heaven / West Virginia / Blue Ridge Mountains / Shenandoah River." My car slips & slides over mud for a mile before I spin out into a bed of sunflowers, I smack the wheel & growl obscenities about front wheel drive functionality. The sun is swiftly setting on the west side of the Mesa, catching juniper trees in crisp, golden light. I jump out of my car with my backpack & trek through the sludge back home. I have a little less than a mile left, & I have a chance at making it before it becomes pitch black. I look overheard at opacus clouds congregating around the moon, I'd be lucky if I can see where I'm going in the moonlight, but now I'm not so sure. The mud becomes thicker, sucking my shoe into the earth. With each step I hoist my ankle out of the ground & into its next perilous plunge. In the distance I can hear a car, occasionally spotting lights through the tree. I turn around frequently, in order to pin who may be on their way home. The car catches up with me sooner than I expected, towing a horse trailer kicking up kidney sized blocks of mud. The driver rolls down his window, & turns his music off, "howdy, y'need a ride home?" He starts to rearrange his items on his passenger seat, making room for me. I wave my hands quickly, denying his offer, "no, no, it's okay. I don't have much farther to go." He drives off, leaving me muddier than when he found me. The rain picks up, almost like karma for my incessant need for independence. When the sun vanishes & the clouds have formed around the moon & I can no longer see the road in front of me, I pick up where I left off with John Denver. "Country roads / take me home." Along the muddiest part of the Mesa, I see the sun's rays still staining the west corner of the sky & I only fall in the mud once on the way down the driveway, "to the place / I belong." (at Rowe Mesa)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

What are the chances she is floating in the wind the moment I step outside? I rely on grandmother nature to let me know she's here whipping tree branches and leaves, brushing raindrops from my forehead. What are the chances I can speak to her and she can hear me? She responds with a wide, airy embrace and whispers, "it's going to be okay." She blows my cigarette out, I let it flutter out of my fingertips and raise my arms in the air. I hold her and the wind wraps her wild arms around me and I feel warm and loved. What are the chances I can feel her in the wind, a year after she went with it? In the flicker of my candle, she whispers good night. I feel less alone with the windows open, cuddling the cool breeze. What are the chances she is still here? Still a force of nature in my life, guiding me in her image. Propelling me towards strength and independence, she is here on earth. Wading through the in between, she still sees the same moon as me. She is here because I know there is no better place, nothing comparable to living in the breeze. What are the chances she finds me in the wind when I need her most? When I find myself too alone at night, with only the crickets to talk to. She sends me messages in my mind, but sometimes I am too clouded to reach them. She blows my mind of all negativity when the wind whirls wildly through my windows. I notice her voice only when it's soft but cutting through the silence. #creativewriting #creativenonfiction #nonfiction #cnf #literature #instagramessay #microessay #video #candle #afterlife #writersofig #writerscommunity (at Rowe Mesa)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

I lost certain parts of me when I found others & when I found him. I found my own selfishness, lust & gluttony. I found dependence & anger & fear but I couldn't find monogamy. He found my insecurity & used it to his advantage. I found only vulnerability inside me & I couldn't stand it. I searched for a part of me that was organic, but he had tainted all of me. He released toxins in my blood & composted my heart, I tried to change my mind again & again but I was always sucked back in. I thought I was figuring out who I was; someone capable of an open mind & forgiveness, but I have learned I am someone who won't tolerate this. I've learned that I am strong despite bony arms & weak lungs. The power of my mind has become stronger than physicality. I am strong despite the lost battles, the cowering & the giving in. I am stronger than myself a week ago because I have finally lost him. I've lost him in the void of his own ego, his non-monogamous vortex of sex, flesh & other women. I've lost him in a sea of himself, & he's drowning, but it's not my responsibility to pull him out. No matter how lonely I feel, no matter how many times I look out my window at the yurt he is secluded in. No matter his berating, endless texts & missed calls catching me when I feel vulnerable. & no matter the lonely nights to come, & there will be many, I'm ready to move on with my life. In losing him, I hope I find myself. #creativenonfiction #creativewriting #cnf #nonfiction #literature #instagramessay #microessay #soulsearching #selfawareness #growth (at Santa Fe, New Mexico)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

The anxiety looms over your head when you reach the site & see the dilapidated fire pit awaiting your tender care. You're the only one who knows how to make a fire in your group & you usually relied on him to help when you couldn't get it going. He isn't here to build the fire if you can't, he isn't here to run the camping show. You unload log after log, stacking them in a neat pile like he taught you. Your friends gather around the pit & await the fire. You brought enough logs & kindling from home, but you're short on sticks for the teepee. You make do with what you have & soon enough the skinny teepee sticks catch fire, with one match. Your soot covered lungs sputter out gusts of oxygen to keep the flames alive. Next, you take larger & thicker sticks to build a big teepee around your smaller one. Every now & then you add pine needles & dry grass to feed the flames, careful not to smother them. The fire slowly grows bigger & smaller & bigger again, with the help of your lungs & your friends'. When the coals become white hot you lean back & reflect, every time you thought you wouldn't be able to make it, to do what you have just done, you realize you weren't motivated enough because there was always someone else to do it for you. Now that he's gone, you get to prove your abilities not only to others but to yourself. You've built a self sustaining fire, a fire that doesn't need constant attention, a fire that needs a few logs every so often because it's burning flame is enough to keep everyone warm. The anxiety disappeared hours ago & you didn't notice, you were so immersed in the process of setting up that you forgot you were worried you wouldn't be able to do it in the first place. It feels good to watch the dancing flames, handsomely charred wood & white smoke swirling through the air & think— "I made that." You did everything he used to do for you & you did it quickly & easily on the first try. You fix your oil lamp & sharpen a stick into a weapon, you save the wood in the pouring rain & start the fire again in the morning from warm coals & a little bit of lighter fluid. You self sustain in a way you never thought you could. #creativenonfiction #literature (at Santa Fe National Forest)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

She spends too much time sneaking glances at you from the corner of her eyes. She speaks in novels about you, always peppering you into conversation because she's too excited to be apart of your life. She snaps photos of you when you're not looking, zooming in & out & giggling at you through her lens. She daydreams about building fires with you & driving to work, her entire life is composed around your adventures. You watch her sigh & smile in her sleep when you come to bed & snake your arm around her waist, she wakes up smiling in your embrace & you see her do this, time & time again. So much that you think it would knock some sense into your head. But it never does. Because when you say you have eyes for others, it is not selflessness you speak of, but lust & want for something new. But she holds onto the hope she has for you, her small hands wringing tightly around what little love you express for her. She cries when she's alone because she realizes that's all she'll ever be, as long as she's dependent upon your company. You try to be positive in love when in reality, your negativity seeps through your sweaty palms, when you touch her, it bleeds into her pores. You say "I love you" with as much sincerity as you can muster, but always fall short. You grant yourself the privilege of receiving her love, although it doesn't feed your soul, no, but your ego. She slowly becomes burnt out, she's unable to pretend that she's driving down a two way street. She goes to her place instead of yours because the weight of your relationship is too heavy to carry. But you allow her to carry it all on her bony shoulders, knees buckling & arms trembling as she tries to save the crumbling remains of one year. She's tired & she's weak, she's been hurt 1 too many times before, & 10 too many by you. You'll come home & find an angsty note on your door, telling you everything she's wanted you to hear about your ego, your selfishness & more. You won't believe she's serious this time because you've been able to drag her back before, but she's standing her ground now & forever, because there is nothing left to fight for. #creativewriting #creativenonfiction #cnf #nonfiction #literature (at Rowe Mesa)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

He hoists a bucket full of river water over his shoulder & douses her flames. She hisses & shrieks, flaming tendrils reaching out from the pit, he plunges a shovel into her core & sifts through the smoldering mess. Her smoke asphyxiates him & fills his lungs until he's hacking & hocking loogies into her remains. One spindly flame lunges toward the edge of the pit, she reaches out fiery fingers & licks the hem of his denim jeans. He stumbles backward & she grasps him & screams. Smoke clouds the air around them while he tries to reach for the remaining water in his bucket but she drags him into the pit. She wants to burn him one last time. He rolls onto his stomach, nails digging into the gravel. He screams for help, frantically looks from left to right for a helpful hand but he is alone. She brands him with her fingerprints. Plumes of smoke billow to the clouds, a roaring shock of thunder followed by a strike of light through the trees shatters the earth beneath them. Ample plops of rain cut through the air, she wails as it pours. Her grips loosen around his quivering bones & she slowly fades as the rain quenches every last coal. He pulls himself upright & hugs his knees to his chest. He shudders as the cold mountain air shifts to an icy atmosphere. Although he is supposed to feel free & saved, all he feels is empty & cold. Now that she's gone he regrets everything he did to extinguish her flames. His bottom lip trembles violently & snot runs down his face, he lunges toward her remains. She's nothing but a pile of wet coals & charred logs, he tries to reassemble her as frantic tears shudder out of his body. In the incessant rain he cries out to God, "Lord! What have I done?!" Because now that's she's gone, he wants her back. He tries to convince himself he never wanted to smother her in the first place, that he always knew she was strong enough to come back. She'd done it before, each time she'd been a pile of ash, she remerged with languid flames hotter & stronger than before. But there is only so much rain a burning flame can take. #creativefiction #literature #fiction #creativewriting #metaphor #personification #writing #writer #writerscommunity #writersofig

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

Although you can't tolerate them for long, you miss them when they're gone, and you always say you're not going to cry. But when she hugs you good bye and cries a sea of tears you can't help but feel empathy and soon you shed waterfalls too. And your brothers say bye, one awkwardly hugs you from the side and clenches his jaw because at 15 it's not cool to be emotional. And the other asks again and again if you're coming back to California, but you have to say 'no, Jakey, you gotta go' and 'I'm staying in New Mexico.' But he doesn't understand because at 4 years old he can't grasp the concept of distance, he asks how many minutes till he sees you again and you roughly estimate 1 million. He asks if that's a long time and you nod your head and hide your face because your lip starts to tremble. Your mom is still crying and your dad gives you advice, 'only you can make yourself happy' and 'change is worth the fight' all the helpful things you knew he'd say. Now they're gone and you're sitting alone in their hotel room. You have to go into work in half an hour but haven't found the strength to pull yourself together. You're 20 and you think you're an old soul, more like 50 on the inside, but then you realize you're younger than you look. You still need your family by your side to feel like you have a purposeful life. But when you're left alone with nothing but a quiet house to come home to you miss them because they're gone. #creativenonfiction #cnf #nonfiction #literature #lit #creativewriting #instagramessay #microessay #writersofig #writerscommunity #writer #writing #family #meowwolf (at Santa Fe, New Mexico)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

I long for the days my putrid scent is overcome by billowing smoke and ambrosial aspen trees. When it doesn't matter that I'm covered in soot so thick the puissant rain can't wash it away; when I am doused in mud and blood and can't tell which from where, with splinters embedded beneath the dirt encrusted life lines running along my veins. I'm happiest when I'm dirty, no, FILTHY, and I'm not worried what cleanly person is judging me. I long for the days when the days are long and the river is roaring and time seems to stand still. For I am freezing unless I'm wrapped in a insulated flannel sack or singeing my leg hair by the fire. I don't bother washing my hands before handling my food, because nature isn't unsanitary or tainted, the dirt feels clean like I could bathe in it, unlike the dirt tumbling down the mountain. Nature makes me feel clean. Although I am weary of rattlers and careful to pack my food away because tonight I sleep in bear's country, I feel human outside of town and complete inside the forest. Despite the cuts dried in blood, despite the bruises I'm not sure what caused them, despite sleeping on a rock all night, nothing fulfills me more than building a fire to keep warm. A fire so strong, nothing, not even the rain, could soak the white hot coals beating to the sound of drops plopping into the ashes. I long for these days, though they have been few and far between, the days line up slowly, the more and more I go camping. #creativenonfiction #cnf #nonfiction #creativewriting #literature #microessay #instagramessay #camping #campfirewritings #campwriting #optoutside #rei #REIrainflyworksdamnwell (at Big Tesuque Campground)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

My body is littered with SCARS. From my neck to my arms, they sprinkle down my torso to my hips, they trail down my legs to the tips of my toes. Some are from others pushing me down and around. Some are from falling, others from shaving; but most are from me. They are white or pink or purple or brown, they look like slashes and gashes and scratches and scrapes and frowning little mouths. Some are close together like a cutters colony, others are far apart like when you trip and fall and roll and bang your knee. Some really hurt, others didn't hurt at all. Some were accidents, others intentional. I count them from time to time but give up after 40 or 50. I can't count the scars hiding under other scars, or the ones I can't reach. Like the scar between my shoulder blades caused from rock cliffs at the beach. I can't erase them with makeup, bracelets or tattoos. Because they pulse under my skin, bleeding and beating like they used to. They scream and shriek because they want to be heard, like writhing leeches on my skin. I adjust the position of my arms, tug my sleeve or change the subject, because some are reminders, others are burdens but most are my deepest darkest regrets. I am branded with my own anxiety, living proof of a statistical, depressed, mental anomaly. I am a skin graft collection unintentionally but I try to see them optimistically. They are signs and symbols and stories of who I used to be. I have to remind myself they aren't indicative of me but of how I got to who I am now. They are stepping stones to a pain free life, symbols of strength and growth. The colors ranging from healed to mostly healed to almost healed to getting there. My scars are the metaphor of my psyche, remembering and reminding me that I can't let myself fall back into a pattern of self destructive epidermic catastrophe. My body is littered with REMINDERS. #creativenonfiction #cnf #nonfiction #literature #writing #writer #writerscommunity #writersofig #scars #skin #instagramessay #microessay #lit #lovetheskinyourein (at Rowe Mesa)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

He builds fires in the pit of your soul. Fueled by split, fallen trees he axed himself, which you unload from the wood brimming trunk of your car. He digs deep inside your core, using stones as shovels and stones to build your pit higher, for maximum fire safety. He's careful, he's diligent and he pays no mind to horse flies or mosquitos swarming around aspen trees and their fallen leaves. He ignites a flame underneath your teepee, made of skinny wayward branches. With grass wrapped bundles of dried scattered brush ablaze the fire grows from a lit match to a roaring flame. Sometimes the fire dies out and he neglects to fuel you with logs, but other times the fire is too powerful and the radiating heat burns him raw. You can't control his burning desire or wildfires and you can't control the rain. You can't stop the wind from blowing you out and you can't stop the pain. Your flames reach the scruffy tendrils of hair sprouting from his chin, you singe curly brown hairs and he doesn't seem to care. He welcomes your burning embrace, he welcomes your fiery touch on his 3rd degree burns. He wants you to burn him as much as he wants to burn you. And you do. He builds fires in the depths of you, starting from your core, your anxious gut flaming from the white hot intensity he has created with his calloused, soot covered hands; he works his way to your heart and burns away your stone wall until you're two logs and two flames. Ready to burn, ready to rage. Two against the world and two differences, together, two the same. #creativenonfiction #nonfiction #cnf #creativewriting #literature #fire #firepit #campfire #camping #campfirewritings #writersofig #writerscommunity #writing #writer #camping #personification (at Santa Fe National Forest)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

Their gluttony is undeniably plastered on their puckered faces. They need a new pair of leather sandals and the pair we have are too blue or too new and they're too rude to understand I don't make the prices. Consumers consume my soul with fashion advice and requests and anger and regrets for spending $400 in one store. I can't give them a refund, I can't give them more of a discount than 20% and they resent me for working a minimum wage job where I've no control of the prices, the quality or the rules. The plaza is rich with poor souls and thin wrists carrying obese wallets and flaming credit cards. The consumers expect to always be right, the consumer IS always right. My days are spent cleaning deodorant encrusted shirts crumpled inside out on the dusty floor, picking crushed Jose Cuervo shooters from the gutter and used syringes jammed into the store's main door. The street is always littered with butts of cigarettes and coffee cups left by the careless 1%. They want to shop in Santa Fe but they don't want to pay the price of small businesses. Some slap their platinum cards on the counter before I announce the total: $600 for 3 dresses and some shoes, $1000 for a shelf of gold jewelry; and they don't dare flinch. Because when you have money everything else is monotonous. #creativenonfiction #nonfiction #cnf #creativewriting #writing #literature #writersofig #writerscommunity #consumerism #retail (at Downtown Santa Fe)

[foxeswritefiction-blog]

The sun touches down on the south side of the mesa, engulfing the celeste sky in amaranth watercolor. I lean out my car window and immerse myself in the overwhelming petrichor, I revel in the telluric current of the wind whipping my mane of hair to and fro. My mediocre phone camera snaps a picture of the scene, never doing it justice and I return to my seat and continue my drive to the farm, where I am greeted by eight dogs, running about the land, one of which is my own. My roommate has replenished the beer that has become apart of our fridge and we sit under a commune of stars in the melanic sky. He smokes his spirit and I crush double-menthol cigarettes between my fingers, we debate government conspiracies without hushed tones and paranoid over-the-shoulder glances. Picking apart every injustice we skim in newspapers that only share bad news. With clenched fists and gritted teeth we ignite freedom fires inside but careful their growth, too much passion and unjust fury raging in the confines of our skeletons could lead to harm. We fade in and out of topics, but I find myself drawn to conversation instead of internal insecurities and reservations. It has become easy for me to wear my mangled heart where my sleeves used to be. Curtis understands every word that impulsively flies from my lips and he agrees. We swap ideas and theories, that lead me to talk about life in the only way I know how; referring to things in terms of photos or writing, my own imagination stronger than my experience with living. He shares an anecdote every now and then, always relevant to a desire I have expressed in the amount of time it takes me to light another cigarette. Curtis shares from his soul, from a place he has been and traveled and explored over and over again. He shares drifting through Colorado, North Dakota and Ohio— his experiences stronger than the overflowing chakra of desire beating hard in my chest. In my eyes he has done so many things and has experienced the organic life I wish to lead. He's onto his next adventure, a college degree. #creativenonfiction #cnf #nonfiction #literature #writing #writer #writersofig #writerscommunity #offgridstories #santafesunset (at Rowe Mesa)