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Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2020
Dear Courtney,

“My dress was soaked with the slippery wetted road in Mayhem. I thought I was parading with the other women here. Yet, I escaped this hell of a home. I cannot wait to see you again. I am on the train 25 and the bay was bluer than the usual. The clock strikes at 12 in the afternoon. The sky was breathtakingly painted in the canvas with the clouds' fur orbiting each other.

I sat here, while the greens, I cannot take my eyes off. It was a first time for awhile, but it was always nostalgic with you here. The trees stood there, and the train moving in its monotonous pace. This time, I am thanking this train for its urgency. Maybe, he wants us to see each other again. Just you wait, Courtney. Tomorrow, we will see each other again.

It's dawn and the morning breakfast was here in front of me. It is a complete set. Just like what you like. Tea, toasted bread, egg and tomato. Ah, I thought I saw you sleeping here beside me. Am I doing it again? Wait for me, dear friend, for I will see you now.

There the trees and the mountain facing me. The scenery is telling me a story. A memory of you and me. Ah, dear friend, it is almost evening. I hope you're thinking of your friend here while you're taking a sip of your wine.

The train stopped and I am here now, Courtney. I hope this letter reaches you, dear friend.”


“She's really a writer, huh?” The nurse said while she reads me Cordelia's letter. I nodded and smiled.

“How was she?” I asked. The lump in my throat was heavy that I could not breathe.

“She's resting peacefully in the bay of Mayhem, Courtney.” The nurse then held my hand.

“Do you think she's happy?” I asked her again.

“Hon, her eyes will give you life. Of course, she is.” She kissed me on the forehead and pushed my wheel chair.

“You will have life again, Courtney. I will see you after the operation.”


My dress was soaked with the slippery wetted road in Mayhem. I thought I was parading with the other women here. Yet, I escaped this hell of a home. I cannot wait to see you again. I am on the train 25 and the bay was bluer than the usual. The clock strikes at 12 in the afternoon. The sky was breathtakingly painted in the canvas with the clouds' fur orbiting each other.

“Thank you for your eyes.” I whispered and tears began to well up. The wind hustled and the trees hurried to drop its leaves out.

I took out my notebook and pen. I wrote how the scenery by the bay gave me comfort.

Cordelia, I hope this letter reaches you.
I hope this touches your soul. Have a great day/night
MRosen Oct 2020
Sorry, I have no idea. I like to talk about myself. Too much. The good, the bad, the everything. I answer my own questions, I interrupt people. I take over the breakfast conversation with my words.  I take over the lunch conversation with my words. At least my family has dinner to express their… wait that’s me too. I reveal myself to people, so I feel vulnerable. I sink into my own thoughts, but out loud. But sinking can be digging too. I dig in to myself, learning, creating. I express who I am. Who I will become.
pt 8 of my vignette series
MRosen Oct 2020
The power line outside my window is like me in so many ways.
It is long, but skinny.
Just like me.
The energy, it courses through it and explodes at random moments
Just like me.
It has great potential, but it is confined.
Just like me.

The energy in the powerline is not like me.
It always chooses the simple path, the easy one.
But I like to challenge myself.
It always chooses the path closest to the ground.
But I am a climber.
It has a chosen destination. It knows where it is going.
But I don’t.

I have no idea where my life will lead.
pt 7 of my vignette series
MRosen Oct 2020
Outside my window I hear planes. They buzz by all night. All day. They are like busy bees, but instead of helping the world they hurt it. Sometimes I like to  watch them as I fall asleep. Two seconds it takes for the plane to disappear and reappear in the next window of my room. One...two...plane. One...two...plane. One...two...no plane. Where is the plane? Three… Did it crash? Four… Did it explode? Five… Are the people okay? Six… My head starts to spin. Like an out of control top, about to spin of the table. Seven... But right before it does, there it is, that plane. Seven seconds later. The fog of Seattle is scary, it hides things. So is change. Scary I mean. When two seconds change to seven, all my thoughts pause for a moment.
pt 6 of my vignette series
MRosen Oct 2020
My skin is like sand in Hawaii.
Completely white.
Not in a good way.
From afar I could blend in with the whiteboard.
There is no color,
Accept when I run.
When I run, my whole face flushes with an ugly shade of red

My skin is so white that all the other features of me are hidden,
My hair that streams down my back, detailed, shiny,
Unnoticed.
My eyes that sparkle in the sunlight, thoughtful, unique,
Unnoticed.
The freckles that stretch across my face, powerful, plentifull
Unnoticed.
pt 5 of my vignette series
MRosen Oct 2020
The jet black alarm clock reads “6:45” in neon green numbers. I moan and hit snooze. I feel safe in bed. Not at school. I feel safe in bed. Not at school.  I feel safe in bed. Not at school. But I have to get up. I have to start my day, I have to continue my life. I will do the same tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that. On and on until I die. With that, I sit up…


and hit snooze
pt 4 of my vignette series
MRosen Oct 2020
Creative. Stubborn. Those are the words that describe Kestrel when she makes food. She makes the food from her mind. No help. Never recipes. Sometimes the food is yummy, like a plump juicy tomato coated in a thick covering of butter, cheese, and salt. Sometimes however, it turns out bad. And I mean really bad. Like the time she made banana toothpaste. I yawned and stretched my arms as I wandered downstairs in the morning. I was hoping for a bowl of sweet cereal and cool milk. When I came down there was no cereal. There was instead a sheet of mashed up bananas. Above the mush was Kestrel, happily adding a white powder that could be salt, sugar, or crushed up altoids. There was no way to tell. When I asked her what it was, she said “Banana toothpaste”. I stuck out my tongue at her, making my eyebrows into little arches, and walked away. Another time, I asked Kestrel why she never uses recipes. Her answer was “I like to create”. I wonder who she will turn out to be. Sometimes I see her watching her shows and I worry. I want her to be her own person. And then I remember the toothpaste. “Banana toothpaste. Banana toothpaste.” She’ll be okay. No, she’ll be amazing. My little sis and her banana toothpaste.
pt 3 of my vignette series
MRosen Oct 2020
The past of my mother is non-existant in my name. Although, she is half of me. She birthed me. She feeds me. She provides for me. She understands me. She listens to me. She hugs me. She loves me. But her name is not in mine. My father’s name is in mine. That’s good. He cooks for me. He works hard for me. He advises me. He helps me. He waits with me. He supports me. He loves me. He deserves to have part of my name. But so does my mom. And she can’t have it. Just because she is a woman.
Pt 2 of my vignette series
MRosen Oct 2020
I don’t know where my home is. My house is where I sleep. Blankets cover me as I try to rest for the next day. But my neck aches from the long day before me and for the long day that is sure to come next. My cabin is where I play. When there is warmth, I spend my time splashing my sister in the icy water. When there is cold, I slide down the mountains on my skis with my father. But when I am there, I feel alone. My school is where I learn. For the future, for my good. At school my “friends” don’t feel like friends. But they will soon. I know. My climbing gym is where I play. There, I have friends. There, I have confidence. There, I have fun. My people is my home. Family, friends, whatever. My home is where I feel safe, my home is who I love, my home is where I’m loved.
This is part of my vignette series
Vadim Slivinski Jul 2020
Knock-knock

The door opens
With a creaky sound
Resemblant of that
Of an upright.
I tremble
And dissipate
Under a distinct impression
Of a mellow fingerdrum
As the elder brother rushes
Towards the second son
For a goodbye hug
Or, perhaps, a goodnight kiss.
Walls become wet
And gently crush me
Into a coffee bean sparkling
Glittering mass of yesterdays.
For what was, is and to come
Is surely hidden inside a matchbox
You keep in your inner pocket
To protect from rain, burglary
And other troubles.
Look up at the sky:
I’m standing close to you,
Garlic and tobacco odour included.
Even when I’m not actually
Here.

The stars;
They aren’t other worlds
(although some people say they are);
I propose a toast to my self-control
And to the sweetest place I’ve ever visited —
The corners of your mouth.
Another late-night morphinesque reminiscence
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