Fencing in the forest

I had no idea what to expect. I had seen plenty of footage online, but this was the kind of thing you had to attend to really come to terms with it. I don’t remember doing anything else that day, I must have slept in on purpose. The train ride out there was half an hour, so I gave myself another thirty minutes to cover the walking distance. It was July, and 30℃, so I barely threw on a tank top and shorts. Bare skin central. Tossed in my tote bag were my phone, wallet, keys, and book. The organizers suggested we bring as many liters of water as possible but since this was my first time, I swung by the corner store next to the metro stop and bought two 50ml bottles. I read the entire ride there, trying to forget where I was going. I almost missed my stop. When I did get off, I found myself standing in front of the faregate, which kept regurgitating my metro card back at me. I figured I had three options. Turn around, cross the train tracks, and head back home. Jump over the turnstile and...

I had never before looked at a pair of eggplants as a tool, until the day my mother used them as a weapon. It was Sunday afternoon, lunch time, and neither one of us was in the mood. The kitchen is a despised place in our home; a laboratory in a house full of books; a pottery studio for useless hands. And yet, there it sits, always waiting for the next meal to be conjured. And we reluctantly comply. But you know what doesn’t help? August in Barcelona. So, there sat two perfectly plump eggplants on top of the fruit bowl, begging to be eaten once and for all. My mother finally dragged herself out of the office chair and onto the tiled floor at around 2pm and rummaged in the fridge to cool off and come up with a meal. The sound of ruffling travelled across the hall and into my room, and I became aware of my stomach's growls. A glance at the time, and hangryness established itself. Sigh. Before coming out into the living room, I held on to the door frame and stretched. Ready for...

  I juggle a steaming cup of English Breakfast and a bowl of Quaker Steel Cut Oats in one hand, and slide the screen door open with the other. The eyes squint. The brow frowns. The day’s colors begin to settle on my skin. Some purple establishes itself on the Salvia. The Zinnias pinken and the Cardinals redden. Around here, things know how to fall into place. At night, a rafter of turkeys strut, gobble, and hoist their way up to my grandfather’s pine trees. Now, I drag my slippers across the deck and place my breakfast on the railing, between Petunia and Black-eyed Susan. The chair is never quite where I want it to be, so I tug it lightly, pull it slightly. Never to my own satisfaction. I sit myself down and it hits me that it rained last night, as I begin to feel the cool water from the pillow seeping through my pajama pants. Ah well. I bring the cup to my lips and test the waters. Too hot. I take a spoonful of soggy oats instead, letting the spice of the cinnamon marry the sweetn...

It was sunny and Mattie lay on her towel - her knees making a pyramid as her feet dug into the sand. The further she dug, the cooler the sand felt between her toes. She was wearing a bikini and sunglasses, but staying well under the sun umbrella. The shade was her best friend. With her hands behind her neck, she gaped at the clear blue sky hanging over her. Her mother was enjoying a mid-August read beside her. Mattie peeked at her occasionally  to try and catch her dozing off and poke fun at her if she did. It was a running joke between the two that the mother would never admit to falling asleep in a public space. Out of the blue, Mattie found herself eavesdropping on the conversation taking place the next parasol over. She couldn't really make out the features of whom she figured were a late-middle-aged husband and wife, maybe taking some time away from the grandchildren. The man wore trunks and a cap to cover his scalp. The woman sat to his left, making it hard for Mattie to get ...

The end of the world is in a butterfly. One evening you’re scoping out the neighborhood and you happen to take a step back to admire Mrs. O’s garden, when you notice a small little white butterfly pop up from the corner of your eye. The scene has fallen perfectly into place. And then you think back on when the last time you saw a butterfly was, and it dawns on you that this is the first time all summer. Mind you, it’s almost September. So you rack your brain trying to summon a memory of a butterfly from the past four months. Not a single one. It can’t be. Surely you must be wrong. Nothing. Now your gut churns at the thought of what this could mean. You know insects are the central nervous system of this planet. The last piece that completes the puzzle. Without them there is no you. And you know this isn’t about you. But without you, there is no one else left in this universe to admire the wonder of such beings as butterflies. And don’t butterflies exist to be admired. It doesn’t take m...

The locals named me Wounda. Meaning “close to death” in their dialect. As if we aren’t all close to death all of the time. As if we shouldn’t all be called Wounda. I used to be free. Something that comes with being nameless. Something you won’t understand. Think about it. You are named, branded, tagged and labeled the moment you are conceived. Your forenamed self enters a forenamed world. You are fed unpronounceable ingredients and told that’s what you eat. You are washed with chemicals and told that's how you clean yourself. You are clothed in certain colors and told that’s just what you wear. You even have a name for all the naming. Social constructs. Without names, you are nobodies. And that’s where we part ways. Because I was somebody until you named me. Something I learned from you during our time together was the concept of projection. I was always being depicted as the victim who had to be saved, while all along it was your displacement of feelings of shame and guilt at play...