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Before you Ask: a Poem

Trigger Warning: This poem contains dark themes and is intended for audiences who can handle these themes. If you are experiencing symptoms of depression or suicidal thoughts, please see a mental health professional or refer to my list found here.

Before you ask,
yes,
I am feeling sad and hopeless,
and I do have a lack of pleasure
in doing things I previously enjoyed —
like writing poetry or talking
to my imaginary friends.

& yes, I’m aware
how it makes me sound
when I say “talking to my imaginary friends”
but I’m an author and a poet,
I play with words for fun.

This isn’t fun
for me.
These wellness checks.
These inventories on my feelings:
check “yes” or “no”,
rate your feelings on a scale.

Most days, I’d rather paint you
a watercolor of my emotions,
let the feelings wash together until
you can’t tell ecstatic bliss
from despondency.

But today,
before you ask,
words are falling apart,
they’re fragile ghosts who haunt me
but don’t seem to speak my language.

Before you ask,
the poet in me doesn’t want to waste
the paper.
She thinks it’s better used
for a brilliant mathematician
cycling through his numbers
or a census-taker calculating persons
than to listen to her trivial whining.

Yet here I go.

Before you ask,
yes, I suppose it’s natural
to plan these things.
To work out the logistics of life
and to perhaps even plot out
the details of death.
But I’m not Sylvia Plath,
contemplating the temperature to set
my oven,
nor am I going to the ocean
with stones weighing down my pockets.

I have too many plans.
Too many things to do.
I would have too many goodbyes to say.
Too many books to donate.
I still have unfinished stories burning
in me.
Before you ask,
the light in my eyes flickers
and yes, even dulls,
but though the disease tries to steal me,
as I go through these inventory questions,
I discover
I’m not ready to leave

just yet.

Isabelle Palerma

Horror en América and Beyond: an Update

The newest anthology I’m featured in, Horror en América and Beyond, has been released!

Here’s a small blurb about it:

Horror en América and Beyond is a chilling collection by some of the most talented horror and speculative fiction authors, poets, and creative non-fiction writers in the country. It includes terrifying tales by award-winning authors Pedro Iñiguez and Carmen Baca, poetry by Poet Laureates Edward Vidaurree and Juan Perez, and Creative-Nonfiction by the prolific Daniel Olivas.

Each story traverses the boundaries of horror; with topics so fiendishly taboo, yet deliciously mortifying, you’ll be tucking your toes under your blankets at night. With razor-sharp poems unveiling the horrifying nature of American violence, both supernatural and mundane. The non-fiction will have you question the horror of politics in America. This anthology will keep you in a stranglehold until the very last page, and leave you gasping for more!

As usual, you’re more than welcome to purchase it on your own if you’re interested in buying a copy or if you rather, if you’re on my mailing list, I can send you an autographed copy. I would just have to add in mailing expenses. Plus the bonus charge for my autograph. 🙂

Please feel free to let me know if this anthology is something you’d like to add to your collection.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, I sent Killer of Creatures to three alpha readers and I’m about 34k words into a different novel. I know I should be working on the sequel to Killer of Creatures, but to be honest, I had to leave that on the back burner because I haven’t been feeling very funny lately.

Isabelle Palerma

Rain Falls Fast: a Short Fiction

For National Short Story Month (like last year), I’m experimenting with writing more short stories.

The prompt from Dylan Drakes’ randomizer is an affectionate yet reckless street performer having to prove her innocence in a dark fantasy/sci-fi mind transfer short story.

Features: dark, potentially triggering imagery.

The way the rain came down wasn’t good for business. Nobody has got time for buskers when it’s pouring down rain. They’re busy shielding themselves from the tears from the sky, and it’s so damn loud. I wish I could just blame the noise on the howl of the wind, the tip-tap of rain on awnings, but it’s all those thoughts.

People’s thoughts get louder – and sadder – on rainy days. Folks wanting to jump from bridges. Take too many pills. It’s enough to break your heart. I’d switch places with them if they’d let me. Bury me six feet under instead.

I never cared about something as petty as my life. But the rain falls fast. Their thoughts loud. And I want to mother them. Protect them from the darkness in their minds.

So, one by one, I guided them out of the rain, out of the city, to a tent. The circus. Where there are clowns and a ringmaster and fire breathers and elephants. Tigers doing tricks. Fortune tellers with crystal balls.

One called me “selfish” as I led the people with the loud thoughts to the circus. “Self-centered” like an accusation. And it stung me like a wasp sting.

“You’re not as sweet as you seem,” a performer hissed.

An eyebrow arched, I had a million questions. I must have allowed him into my mind and vice versa because the words continued there.

Prove this is altruistic, he demanded, prove you’re not doing this just to quiet the streets. To silence your mind.

I wanted a little peace, it was true. Their thoughts interrupted my ability to play my violin. But I genuinely cared. I wanted what was best. Tell me you are innocent. That this is for the people and not for you, Clare.

His wheedling stuck with me. He wasn’t wrong. I was selfish. I always have been. Taking them to the circus wasn’t just charity. It was to quiet my mind. To still the streets. To leave behind the voices.

And yet, one persistent, reckless voice remained, telling me the streets would be so much quieter without a busker, a violinist, named Clare.

I never cared about something as petty as my life. But the rain falls fast. My thoughts loud.

Isabelle Palerma

This short story is entirely my own content – no A.I. used to create this.

A Peek into a Sleepless City

Sleeping is illegal. Dreaming is monetized. They said it was for our safety. But it wasn’t.

The city never sleeps. Why should it…?

The Regime is watching. Always watching…

Interested in more?

Wait until the official blurb comes out.

Maybe you’ll just have to stay awake to find out. 😉

Isabelle Palerma

Heartbreakers: a Short Fiction

“A love story told backwards, starting from the ending.”

trigger warning: begins with a vague implication of suicide.

I don’t know how to tell you this, and maybe it’s better I don’t.

And I know one day, I’d break your heart.

Maybe it’s better I don’t.

I’m lying in a hospital bed, a mixture of medicine and whiskey in my stomach. I’m dying, Fiona.

I used to write you letters after you left me. They weren’t exactly love letters. Well, I’m not sure you ever read them, but they were begging for forgiveness, Fiona. I know I messed up along the way. I see where I screwed up now.

I sent you little photographs I took. I don’t know if you ever looked at them, Fiona, but I took small photos. Random things here & there. Pictures I thought you’d like. The moon. A watch tower. Sometimes, I’d include things I’d find on walks. Bird feathers. Business cards floating around, then stomped on by passing cars.

Anyway. I thought about us a lot before I ended up here in the hospital.

About our story.

The way you slammed the door the last night we were together. The way the stars blinked as I tried to hide my tears when I told you to get out of my house. I watched you leave. You didn’t have a car or a bus pass, but you held your chin high and walked away.

I wonder where you walked to, but you never came back like I thought you would. We had fought one last time. Screamed one last time over some stupid thing. I accused you of cheating. You told me I was stupid and suspicious.

Fiona, you were right. I was stupid and suspicious.

You were too lovely to be mine.

I knew I couldn’t keep you. I was bound to destroy something so beautiful.

I remember the glint in your eye. The hurt look in your green eyes.

A part of me wanted to rush over, to beg forgiveness, but I barrelled on anyway like an idiot, accusing you.

It was just an accusation before I shouted.

But before the accusations, before the shouting, we were in bed together, it was nice. My breath was like cigarettes and whiskey. I hadn’t known it at the time. It was just us holding one another, watching some black-and-white film. Some classic movie you begged me to see. And when I turned to kiss you, you asked me to brush my teeth.

My feelings were too delicate, I guess.

I didn’t know the brutish combination of cigarettes and whiskey.

I could have just brushed them instead of turned into a monster.

But even before the film, there was a girl who loved a boy.

She held him near and whispered away his ghosts – the ones who troubled him like that of his former friends who didn’t understand him or his mother who told him nobody would love him.

And Fiona, I wanted to ask you to marry me one day. I truly did.

And we went out on dates. I took you out and showed you off. You with your lustrous dark hair and beautiful eyes like jade. You whose hair I brushed at bedtime, after making love.

It was backwards and all out of order. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, but I couldn’t because you were too lovely and I knew one day, you’d break my heart.