rage-on-a-page

[rage-on-a-page]

The Search- Short Story

The boy and the dog went down to the river when they saw something most unusual. The day was as pleasant as a fresh cup of coffee. The boy had grown to love these kinds of days the most, because of the ease with which he could explore the land. The flashes of sun peaked between the pitaya trees illuminating every other step he took. The juvenile dog by his side served as a helpful guide when he wasn’t getting distracted by the scents of the forest. Together the power duo had gone exploring the lands in search of the fabled treasure hidden within the earth. It was rumored the kindly old man that sat on the hill in front of the chicken shop had hidden a bundle of gold bars long before the boy had even been thought of. Many had tried to find the treasure, but none had been successful. The boy however knew he was different- he knew with his small stature, agile legs, and boundless energy the treasure was already his. If only he could find it.

The boy and the dog went deeper into the forested area. With each step they took the taste of the unfound treasure only got sweeter. The path was jagged so the boy took extra caution with each step he took. After all, a treasure would hold no value if his legs were unable to bring him back to where he could spend it. The trees surrounded the boy in a shower of green leaves. Fruits of all shapes and sizes adorned the leaves. The avocados were not ripe yet, but the lemons looked so large and bulbous the boy was tempted to pick some for his mother. However on this particular mission the boy was resolved to keep his focus. No matter how rough the path got or what temptations lay around him, the boy knew what he wanted.

The boy and the dog found themselves at a small river. He had followed the river before to see what secrets it would tell him, but he unfortunately never heard what he wanted. Every time he would find something different. A broken beer bottle, discarded shoes, once a still functioning flashlight that was powered by the sun. By far the most valuable thing he found was a necklace, faded by the effort of time. Each time he found something new, the boy’s thirst for the treasure grew tenfold. 

Normally the boy would follow the river and see what story it would tell, but this time he had a different idea. He decided to explore the area above the river, where the water descended from. He never bothered searching there for he assumed any treasure at the top would surely find its way through the river, however something about this pleasant day felt different. He climbed up the side with the rocks while his trusty dog waited below. As he got to the top he took a brief look around the shifting land near the water, but he didn’t see anything remotely interesting. It was just land undisturbed. Just as the boy felt resigned once more, he looked towards the distance where saw a strange symbol painted further out. It was done with blue paint and the symbol almost resembled a cross if it were missing the bottom stick and if the sides were rounded. The boy was unsure what it meant, he hardly recognized such a symbol. However he knew the mark was not made by chance.

“Wait here” he told the dog. The boy tightened his shoelaces, took another look at his destination, and he began the journey towards the blue symbol.

[rage-on-a-page]

Short Story- Abandoned

It had been a few hours and one thing was clear: nobody was coming for me. The sun was beating on me with the strength of 1000 horses and I wasn’t sure how much longer I would be able to hang on. Why did they let me go? Where was my mom, my siblings, my home? I was surrounded by life, living in a paradise of love, companionship, and tranquility. My house was a spacious and earthen environment, a palace for me and my siblings to explore as we began to understand the rules of this world. I was a month old, and had just reached this age after all of my older siblings. As the runt of the litter, there were times I felt my nails weren’t as sharp or my whiskers as intuitive, but nonetheless I was loved and welcomed. Draped around my neck was a collar- red with sparkles and a rustic bell adorned its center. Each of my siblings had a similar one except in different colors. Pink, Yellow, Blue, Black, and Green and I all played alongside our beautiful mother.

My mother didn’t wear a collar for some reason. Even without it though, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She had a soft purr that would help me and my siblings go to sleep during those first few nights. Her fur was soft like a plush toy, but something about the sensation of rubbing up against it provided an intoxicating comfort. Like an old baby blanket, I tucked myself into the smooth tufts of her charcoal fur and let myself be carried to a slumbering bliss. My mother was a beacon during the first month of my life. Her light shone far past the reaches of the house I grew up in. It reached every dusty corner, beneath the worn out furniture, and even extended into the lawn in the back, though I had only been there once. This place was more than just some house- it was mine.

When they lifted me and brought me to the car, I thought nothing of it. I had been here before a few times. Once when we went to the obnoxiously shiny office where they stabbed me for some reason. The second time we visited some children, who just could not get enough of me. But this time was different. My siblings nor my mom were with me. I was all alone, in a box, where attached to my crimson collar, was a paper. This set up confused me, but up to this point I had no reason to be concerned. Not even when the person put my box down on the steps of the church did I think something bad would happen. It wasn’t until I saw the figure disappear back to the car and slowly pull away that I felt my heart sink. “They will come back. They always do”. It was all I could tell myself to distract from the slow realization that my world had just changed.

The first few hours were calm. As the sun peeked its face from the east, I lay in my box, waiting. Surely someone would come and pick me up. Maybe it would be Blue to come and get me, we always got along the best. Perhaps my mother was here and she would soon greet me and take me out of this shabby bed. Or maybe even another human will come and find me. Calmly anxious, I waited in that box for 1, 2, 3 hours. But when the sun reached the top and was blazing down one me, I knew I couldn’t stay there. So I jumped out of the box.

I walked on the jagged lot seeing if anyone or anything was around. The solemnly silent site offered no greeting. Everything was compact and close. I couldn’t take 2 steps without running into a pole or a car or something. The washed up colors of the building made me wonder if anyone even lived here. Was there another family inside unaware of my box? Or was it an empty chamber where hope and love had once called home? I tried speaking, vocalizing as loud as I could so that someone would hear me. But like a leaf my voice drifted in the wind until it was ultimately laid to rest and forgotten about. No one was here.

I kept walking, this time through grass. “Maybe it’s a challenge” I thought to myself. “All I need to do is find my way home!” I could imagine telling Blue all about this place once I reunited with him. Blue would laugh and say he could get home far faster than me, so I have to prove him wrong. I need to get home as fast as I can. I know they’re all waiting for me to pass this test and find my way back to them. Then we can play and cuddle and rest and eat, and it will be like this never happened. “What a fun challenge!” I repeated to myself, hoping it would begin to be true if I said it enough times. I’ll find my way back, I’m sure of it. I have to. They’re waiting for me. They have to be. I wasn’t abandoned.

I was crossing the street when the truck drove over me. It happened so quickly I couldn’t even react. My paws froze to the cement below and I tensed as I waited for the car to pass. When it was done I suddenly realized just how much danger I was actually in. This wasn’t a game anymore, this was my life. I was lost, on the corner of two streets, and I almost got hit by a car. I was sweating, completely inflamed by that cursed sun that kept following me like a shadow. I was so hungry, I just wanted some tuna. At this rate I would even settle for those hard little pellets the humans sometimes gave me. I walked so long, I wasn’t even sure where I could find that washed up church again. All I knew was that I wasn’t safe on this concrete. So with great strain, I lifted my four paws and made it to the verdant patch of grass and laid down.

It was so hot. I was so hungry. I almost died. Worst of all, I had no idea where my family or home was. I thought of all my siblings and wondered if they had noticed I was gone. I thought of my mother who was surely looking all over for me. I thought of the home and I yearned to be wrapped up in its calm embrace once more. I thought of those people that lived with us and wondered why they had done this to me. I started crying. I just want to go home. Please, will someone help me?

Then, as though the world had read my mind, another person approached me. This one was different. I am sure I had never seen them before. They looked at me and said “what on Earth are you doing here? This is no place for a kitten”. I surrendered myself to the person and they gingerly lifted me and laid me out on their forearm. This arm felt like a freshly cleaned blanket on a cold and stormy day. This person felt soft, warm, and almost familiar. I had been outside for so long, it felt nice to feel… protected. The person carried me to their car and kept me on their lap as they drove. “I don’t know how long I can keep you, but you’re safe with me now.” We were in the front seat, and for the first time today, I was filled with something stronger than the joy I had once known. “You’re safe with me now”. The words bounced around my head as I tried to decipher if they were real or just a figment of my desperate imagination.

However, as I laid on their lap, tucked under their shirt, I knew I did not need words to confirm what I had already felt.

[rage-on-a-page]

Feline Sleepy- Limerick

I walked outside and saw a kitty

Alone and no name, what a pity

I guess I’ll take you home

In my house you can roam

And I’ll name you Dog, how witty!

A/N: yesterday I found a poor kitten on an intersection. It was in the middle of the road so I picked it up, checked with a local vet to see if it was chipped (it wasn't) but thankfully I found a temporary (hopefully permanent!) home for it.

[rage-on-a-page]

Poem: Lovely

Love is the sound of music

Think acoustic

The most beautiful song you have ever heard

The sound is melodic

Hypnotic

You start to memorize every single word

You listen forever

For pleasure

Thoughts of leaving never sounded more absurd

But love cannot feed you

It breaks through

And will consume you like a flame unobserved 

Still a sound so precious

Salacious

That you know solely for you is it reserved

“Let it kill me” you say

For any day

Dying for love will always be well deserved

(A/N: This is the first poem I've ever written. I really wanted to challenge myself to do something I've never done before. I wrote and re-wrote this so many times until I finally got something I felt represented my thoughts. Any poetry advice is welcome!)

[rage-on-a-page]

WP: Your protagonist wakes up in the middle of the night and they do something they should not do. Whatever your first thought is, follow that instinct.

She stood on her balcony and took a long drag from her cigarette. She had promised herself she would stop smoking, but today would have to be an exception. Esperanza was normally a heavy sleeper, but this night she just couldn’t find the rhythm she needed to slumber peacefully. Perhaps it was the sound of sirens in the distance- she could only imagine what sort of trouble was brewing on the opposite side of her boisterous city. However, by now Esperanza was used to the siren’s song that played every other night, so that didn’t seem right. Perhaps instead it was the sound of her rickety ceiling fan. She had been meaning to tighten the screws on it, if only she could find where she left her screwdriver. Tools, however, had a tendency to find their way to mysterious places in Esperanza’s one bedroom apartment. She never was an organized person, less so now that she lived alone. Though the ceiling fan rattled with every rotation, Esperanza had slept through it for the past 4 days. Why today of all days would the sound wake her up?

Truth be told, it was not the fan nor the siren that had aroused Esperanza. No, it was something much deeper. The sense of dread Esperanza first felt had originated earlier this month. It came with no fanfare, no sort of explanation, it simply arrived and demanded to be felt. Esperanza had felt this premonition before. Never did it end well.

She began to cough violently. It had been two hundred and seventeen days and counting since she last smoked. “I don’t need it,” Esperanza affirmed to herself each morning. “It isn’t good for me” she repeated into her bathroom mirror two hundred and seventeen times. On a normal night, Esperanza would’ve turned to the book she kept on her nightstand, or maybe even her phone if she couldn’t sleep. However tonight, with the sense of dread boiling inside her, Esperanza instead turned to the secret cigarettes she kept in the back of her closet. The cigarettes she bought earlier this month when the dreadful feeling slipped in. Esperanza would’ve thought herself a weak fool, if she wasn’t so acutely aware of the meaning of this feeling.

She took another drag and watched the crimson glow of the cigarette illuminate her balcony. Looking across the distance, all she could see were trees. These tall conifers defiantly stabbed the heavens with their verdant spears. The night sky was compromised between the clouds and the moon. The celestial body greeted Esperanza’s eye with its delicate glow, but beyond the trees, there was little else for the moonlight to shine upon. The air was cool, but not cold. The slightest breeze threatened to disrupt this perfect weather, but it was not nearly strong enough to convince Esperanza to go back inside. She leaned on the dark railing of her balcony, burning cigarette in hand, as she pondered what this dreadful feeling would bring this time. As her mind raced, she could swear she heard the faint sirens start up again, but more likely it was the sleep deprivation making its presence known. Esperanza knew this sense of dread had befallen her for a reason, but she could not imagine what reason that could be. The only certainty Esperanza held was that sooner or later this feeling would be explained. With her luck, it would undoubtedly be sooner than she would like.

“Whatever it is… I have enough cigarettes to get me through it” she thought. Then suddenly, the siren’s sound grew stronger. Almost as if they were coming for her. No, not almost as if. They were coming for her. Now what business did these sirens have coming to Esperanza’s apartment at 2 in the morning…

[rage-on-a-page]

I Made a Cake Today

I remember the first time I tried to make one of my mother’s recipes. The dish is known as frijoles puercos (pork beans), a staple of my mom’s home state. I wanted to do something I thought would be simple and could satiate my craving for home. I remember buying all of the necessary ingredients after I got out of my afternoon political science classes, and I quickly got to work in my compact kitchen. “It will take about an hour or two,” my mother advised me over the phone. But as I worked diligently to replicate the savory and spicy flavors of the dish, I found myself entering an almost blissful trance. While cooking the chorizo or stirring the brimful pot of beans, all of the stresses of a college aged student seemed to melt away, if only for that moment. It’s hard to be stressed when the aroma of freshly cooked meats and cheeses perform a ballet around your nose. By the time I completed my delectable dish of desire, I had reached a level of tranquility that was foreign to me in my academically rigorous environment. 

The beans were unfortunately not nearly as good as my mother’s, but that was okay, because I knew then that I would be trying it again. And from there my passion for cooking grew. I challenged myself at first to make the dishes from my family- tortillas, enchiladas, pozole, etc. My kitchen may well have become the newest Mexican restaurant on the corner of 53rd and Ellis. Once I had a solid grasp on family recipes, I began expanding my catalog and tried my hand at making desserts. I had always had a sweet tooth, so it felt natural to prepare food that I always found myself craving. Cakes, pies, cookies: you name it, I made it. Nothing comforted me quite the way cooking did. Soon I found myself rushing home after particularly challenging days just so I could make some food. Even if I wasn’t planning on eating it, I would simply offer it to the others who lived on my floor. To me, it was the process that mattered more than the finished product. 

So yesterday, after I heard the news about how the United States, in its commitment to traverse time retroactively, overturned the ruling on Roe v. Wade, I found myself feeling the same way I did during those difficult college days: stressed. Just another day in the land of the free where a freedom was once more taken away. It was all I could do to keep from falling apart. I needed a distraction. I needed a therapeutic experience. I got home from work and looked around the kitchen- and there I saw 2 boxes of cake mix.

The vanilla one only had a small bag left, fit for a pastelito. So I got to work. It was a process I knew all too well; at this point, I could do it with my eyes closed. Halfway through, my mom got home and said “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist making the chocolate cake.” You can imagine her surprise when she saw the alabaster batter. Despite her disappointment, she proposed a deal to me: so long as I made fudge, she would make the chocolate cake, and then we could take it to my sister’s house for her to enjoy as well. It was a deal.

As we worked, neither of us said anything. We didn’t need to. It is truly remarkable the ability of a mother to sense the emotions of her child. Between us, the air of injustice stood sharply, however, all we could do was bake the cakes. By the end of the process, I didn’t feel as good as I would’ve liked, however I had an excuse to see my sister and surround myself with my loved ones. She too was deflated, as her sense of justice is just as strong as mine. So then, we did all that we could do. We ate the cakes. With each bite losing ourselves further in thought as to how the United States would come out of this one. 

As I’m writing this, I myself remain uncertain of my country’s future.

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I Hate Free Speech

I absolutely hate the freedom of speech we are promised. Don’t get the wrong idea- I am grateful for the ability to freely voice my opinions and thoughts. It is something that some of my ancestors as well as many others were (and currently are) constantly denied. However, in my short time of life, I have discovered that there is no such thing as free speech. Every thought we speak, every idea we verbalize, we pay a price for every single word. Sometimes the price we pay is small, just the air and the time it takes to vocalize. Other times, we are paying a much steeper price that takes shape in the arguments we participate in. This idea of freedom of speech is a deliberately misleading one. We are thought to believe that it is a good thing, a right that every human being has. However, for most if not all of us, we have to pay for the thoughts we want to express. 

I currently find myself in the process of strengthening my own voice. I started this blog as an attempt to do just that and am pushing myself to express how I feel. However, I find myself petrified, almost as if I am on the rickety plank of a decrepit ship and I have one step left before I plunge to the cruel depths of the ocean. It may sound silly, but I do possess a fear that whatever I say will reach the wrong audience, and that suddenly I will pay the price for expressing my voice. I live my life every day having to hear about how I am wrong. I am wrong about the things I do not know. I am wrong to be in a country that is not my home. I am wrong for wanting a certain kind of lifestyle. I have to sit and listen as others use their free speech to invalidate my existence. Publishing my thoughts for anyone to see on the internet is just another way I open myself to further degradation. It should come as no surprise then that I hate free speech.

When it comes down to it, however, the attacks will continue on me and anyone like me whether I use my voice or not. It was Audre Lorde who said “We have been taught that silence would save us, but it won’t.” Refusing my own voice will only result in refusing the one right that has been guaranteed to me, should others want to use it as well. And so it is with this idea in mind that I pursue a way to improve my writing, so that I may break any sort of silence and assert my existence despite the protestations of others. It is difficult however, since I have so much I want to say and no clear idea on how I want to say it. Using one’s voice can be so overwhelming and complicated, it almost makes me hate free speech because of how stressful it can be. But in a world where everyone wants to talk and nobody wants to listen, what else are we to do if not speak for ourselves?

[rage-on-a-page]

WP: Your roommate is the serial killer on the news. One day they say "I'm bored, got anyone in mind for me to... y'know?"

“I’m bored, got anyone in mind for me to… y’know?

It was a loaded question. There were, of course, some people I would like to see murdered. Every day you read about corrupt politicians making disgusting decisions against humanity. Beyond that there were a few criminals I could think of that were deserving of some karmic justice. But when Aida asked me this question, there was only one person I could think of, one person who needed to hurt the way I do.

It was another hustling day under the scorching California sun when I found out my roommate was a serial killer. No like, I actually found out Aida was a serial killer. I read plenty of reports online: “The Marigold Murderer Strikes again!” The M.O. was quite simple: a body would be found, usually within 3-5 hours of the death. The victim laid in pristine condition- always made to look like they were asleep. And while the scene would always be cleared of any sort of evidence that could identify such a murderer, there would always be a perfectly laid marigold, right on the heart of the victim. 

“I wonder why they used a Marigold… doesn’t seem very intimidating to me” I once posed to Aida.

“Well I heard Marigolds are used to honor the dead. Maybe it’s some weird way of saying sorry?”

At first I had no reason to suspect Aida of such crimes. After all, we’ve lived together for about a year. I had seen her at her best- cleaning the apartment while blasting 90’s power ballads. And I had also seen her at what I assumed to be her worst- puking in my toilet after margarita night went beyond saving. I had grown to respect Aida and learn how to live with her. I never imagined she would be capable of doing anything as insane as committing a string of murders.

So imagine my surprise when I walked in her room last week, and found a cache of marigold petals, reposed in her closet. An odd sight to be sure, but that alone was not enough. I decided to check what the police had published on the Marigold Murderer. Virtually no identifying information, and the list of victims had almost nothing in common. A churchgoing mom who was adequately respected, a single business man who lived more to be an influence than for himself, a graduate student with a habit of getting wasted at college bars and harassing undergrads. Nothing linked these people with one another, nothing but Aida.

At least that’s what Aida told me when I confronted her. To my surprise, she didn’t deny it. She didn’t try to excuse it or make it sound like it was any better than it was. Aida owned up to every bit of it and told me if I wanted to report her, that it was my choice. She said it started as an accident, but when she never got caught, it became a habit. But she didn’t just choose anyone. She chose only those people she had interacted with and determined that those in their lives would be better off without them there. 

“The Marigold is the flower of the sun” she said… “It also represents good fortune and optimism. I’m optimistic that those left in the wake of my crimes will have their chance to grow”.

So maybe it was that thought that led Aida to ask me the golden question: “got anyone in mind for me to, y’know?”

I’m not entirely sure why I never turned her in. Maybe a part of me still refuses to believe it. Maybe the friendship I had developed with Aida made me overlook it. Or maybe… dare I say… I did have someone in mind I needed Aida to help me with. Someone who deserved to hurt the way I do.

“Aida… you know there’s only one person I wish would drop dead. Miguel… after all this time together, he has the audacity to go out and pose with every cheap floozy that lives in Orange county. It’s like I meant nothing to him. Every now and again he’ll like one of my posts… maybe leave an emoji as a comment… but I’m sick of it. I am sick of being reminded by how perfect he exists and how he doesn’t want me anymore. How can someone change their mind like that? It’s only been a month since we broke things off… but every day I carry the pain of what we were and every day I see him weightless. I wish I could be like that.”

“...Do you think killing him could be the answer?”

“Aida-”

“I don’t mean to judge. I’ve done it for less than that. I just want to be sure it’s what you want.”

“What I want is for Miguel to love me again. What I want is to bring our love back from the dead. Do you think you could do that?”

Aida sighs and responds, “Now you know just as well as I do… he needs to be alive for that to happen.”

The silence grows between us. Of course it’s true. I want Miguel dead, not because he hurt me, but because seeing him alive knowing I’m not with him is the cruelest kind of hell. Maybe without Miguel… maybe then I could grow. Or maybe I would spend every day of my life thinking of him in a completely different way. They say time heals, but I can’t help but wonder how long it will take.

The silence continues, but as though she read my mind, Aida hands me her wine. I take a solemn sip and lay my head on her shoulder. It’s crazy to think I could trust a serial killer, but right now, there’s nothing she can do that would hurt more than the pain I’m already feeling.