An Excerpt from a Second Work-in-Progress

Another scene from a different work-in-progress. I’d love to know your opinions!

From miles away, incandescent light glowed from the City of Glass. Beautiful, glittering light sparkled in the inky blue-black twilight. A horse detached itself from a carousel and galloped into the dark, leaving a scintillating gilded trail shimmering behind him. The horse was as black as midnight with golden constellations on his back, desperate to leave his post.

No one was around to see except the young girl who hid behind a twisty and gnarled tree. She did not speak but watched as the bars that had speared the horse separated. The horse had wriggled through and the girl continued to stare at the gold glittering in his wake. She thought she should warn someone in the city, but even here, even now, she had no voice.

It felt like the horse was seeking freedom, and the girl understood the need for freedom, too. But her voice was empty. She had no words.

Under the hollow of the moon, she opened her mouth and screamed. The scream was the only voice she had. And the scream separated the City of Glass and the carousel horse from where she lay, thrashing in a bed.

The shrieking awoke her younger sister who was only a few feet away. She ran to her, bridging the distance. “Evelyn,” the silent girl’s sister cried out, shaking her. She continued to throttle her sister to wake the girl, to stop the screaming.

Tears flowed down both sisters’ cheeks but for vastly different reasons. When Evelyn awoke, her hazel eyes were unfocused. The horse, the horse, she thought, but the words would never come out.

Ella knew better than to expect Evelyn to speak. Everyone did. Yet Ella stared, expectant, hopeful.

But then, as she watched, Evelyn’s demeanor changed. She began to gasp, to clutch at the thin air, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Evelyn’s face paled, the color of paper in the dim moonlight. She lunged forward, grasping at nothing.

Ella gnawed on her lip, helpless. Frightened.

Then, as though all the life-wind had been sucked out of her, Evelyn collapsed backwards on the thin mattress, shuddering. Her frail chest rose and fell. Ella couldn’t help but think how fragile her sister looked. How weak her bones.

At Wyndhurst Academy, the other children often kept to themselves, and that autumn night as the wind whipped against the shutters and the rain pelted the roof, as the girl tossed and turned, they slept. Or at least pretended to.

Ella, Evelyn’s sister, crouched beside her sister’s bed and stroked her hair, coaxing her back to sleep with a quiet lullaby. As Evelyn started to lightly breathe again, Ella pried her sister’s hand open. The fist she had formed held something. Not empty as Ella suspected.

The fingers parted contained a ceramic horse as black as midnight with golden constellations on his back. Its painting was slightly faded, yet Ella was transfixed.

Where had the carousel horse come from, she wondered, and why was Evelyn clutching it like it was a dead man’s treasure?

Isabelle Palerma

A Wish: a Cut Up Poem

In the early 2000s, I found myself really into the Beat era of literature and exploring that scene. William S. Burroughs is a local author who was popular in the Beat era. He utilized what is called the “cut up” experimentation method of writing. He learned this from a painter, Brion Gysin.

I have experimented with a stream-of-consciousness piece and cut up some of it and edited it into a poem.

The result is below.

All I had was birthdays and
these trying few.
My holding conversations,
stories,
constellations for why I’m running.
Not writing or holding my breath.
They wonder
did we see lines like breathing sometimes?

Especially those I long to remember –
the air of the lungs I journal about,
things I am told to write of and the lover
of which I am incapable of writing,
the body he and me cannot share
because air he loved like so
(like need).

For to be a cigarette is something I wished.
Smoking, gasping, and in his lungs
deeply unbroken.
You knew first: water.
And do as philosophy,
go to the depths.
I finally dove but too deep.

When not gasping,
you and I long for that sensation,
holding your breath,
holding my breath.
And you’re punctuation.
A wish for a concept.
A wish for me.
Let me be intimate,
young.
All I had was birthdays and
these trying few.

Isabelle Palerma

Stitched: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by No’u Revilla, “When You Say ‘Protesters’, instead of ‘Protectors’.”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “When You Say ‘Protesters’…”.

Every devastation you have granted me
is one too many.
I bleed, but only because you know where
to stick the blade.
We were taught love is a synonym
for sacrifice,
and paramour is on par with martyr.

So I opened my heart to you and gave you
its contents
willingly.
But the ugly truth is
in your mouth,
even womb is wound,
and my gift of love,
of life, was never enough.

You looked at those with gray in their eyes
and stenciled their names into your skin
like it was a colossal act of heroism,
but I was the one
ripped open
and never stitched back
together.

Isabelle Palerma

Shout til Free: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Sally Wen Mao, “Anna May Wong Stars as Cyborg #86”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Anna May Wong Stars as Cyborg #86”.

Trigger Warning: Dark themes.

For so long –
too long –
the victors controlled our story.
They told the ending,
wrapped the packaging,
gave it a tidy bow,
and flavored how others saw us.

The men called us “hysterical”.
The rapists said we were “bitches”.
Mothers who found us unlovable
deemed us “troublemakers”.

They all took their turns throwing us
to the wolves,
feeding us
to those with hungry teeth
and starving eyes.

Let’s hijack the narrative,
steer the story ourselves.

We will fight the enemy.
Swim the rising current.
Dance in the streets
the Tarantella.
No longer grit our teeth
but scream if we must.

Shout
and shout
until we are heard
because we will steer this narrative.

Shift this story
from hysterical
to alive,
to fully alive
and aware.

Change our stories
from man-made mythology
to truth.

The truth will free us.

Isabelle Palerma

If I Forget: a Poem

With a concept from kiki_poetry, I am using a line of poetry from an Asian-American or Pacific Islander poet in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

Today’s line comes from a poem by Don Mee Choi, “Wings of Return”. As per kiki_poetry’s instructions, I will italicize the line from “Wings of Return”.

If I forget your name, please forgive me, I’m not myself today. My memories have memories all their own. Sometimes, the memories come. Sometimes, they go.

They have a word for this, you know. What’s the word? My memory isn’t what it used to be.

You wouldn’t understand. You’re just so young. Too young. When I was your age. When I was young.

My memories have memories all their own. Memory’s memory. Memory’s child. My memory lives inside a dust-filled armoire, inside a hope chest, inside a rarely looked at steamer trunk.

My memories are the children of ancestors whose names we’ve forgotten. We’ve forgotten so much.

If I forget your name, please forgive me, I’m not myself today. Sometimes, the memories come. Sometimes, they go. You wouldn’t understand.

You’re just so young. Too young. When I was your age. When I was young. When I was young. When I was young…

When I was young, I didn’t forget so much.