Isabelle Palerma

Where Does Belief Lie: a Prose Poem.

A prompt from Felixflautajrpoetry.

“Describe a place you visited often, what you heard there, who you wanted to become. Write in the second person. Describe it to yourself. Describe yourself.”

Even at thirteen, fourteen, you were questioning, a Doubting Thomas, and you held more interest in the artistry, the pageantry of the faith — the stained glass windows and the gravitas of the priests. The crescendo of the songs, the rise and fall of the Hallelujahs. The Latin. Always the Latin.

Yet you wanted to believe. You always wanted to believe. You wanted to feel something. You wanted to feel it in your heart like your mother did when her fingers moved across the rosary beads, but you never did.

You felt reverence in other ways. Your heart felt big — so big, too big for your chest — when you drove through the mountains with your family or you passed through with friends. When you stood against the ocean or watched a storm come through.

You felt grandeur in the ways that made you feel small and reminded you we’re just infinitesimally tiny. But in that church, in those pews, you look at that crucifix and you don’t seem to see it.

But you go. You go every Sunday. You go each Sunday and you go those holy days of obligation. Your fingers move across the rosary beads.

And yet, you don’t feel it in your heart. Not at the stained glass windows nor the gravitas of the priests. Not even the crescendo of the songs. Even when it came time for the rise and fall of the Hallelujahs. Or even the Eucharist.

You wanted to feel the holiness — the reverence — when you walked, head bowed, into a cathedral. But it was just a building. It was beautiful, yes, but you didn’t feel God there.

You felt God in other ways: standing at the ocean, looking as far past the water as you could; driving through mountains; and when you flew. Any time the world reminded you how small you were.

But a church, even a cathedral, that wasn’t it. Those were man-made. Something manufactured to make us feel something, and you’d rather feel God out there somewhere.

But you were young then, you were thirteen, fourteen. Questioning. Doubting. And small. Even the sound of the choir did not shrink you even smaller than you already were.

The metallic clanking of the thurible at the priest’s side as the fragrant scent of frankincense wafts toward you, and you did not grow more expansive, nor did you shrink.

You doubted, but still, you plunged forward with a faith you weren’t sure you believed in.

Isabelle Palerma

Bringing the Children to the Water: a Short Fiction

Children are the most difficult passengers. Often, they fidget or they ask a thousand questions — most of which I cannot answer. A disturbing number can’t keep their eyes open, falling into a deep sleep of which I feel uncomfortable waking them from.

We’ll be in the boat, or gondola, or ferry, whatever you wish to call it, and I’ll be guiding it to shore. Then, typically, they will ask the usual child-like questions, “Where are we going?”, “Are we there yet?”, “Am I going to see my mommy and my daddy when we get there?”

I don’t know how to elegantly express I’m simply a means of transportation.

Most adults are quiet, peering over the edge, into the water. A few ask a couple questions.

But children are so different.

This one, I want to protect. From what, I don’t know exactly, but as I drag my oar through the river, he hums to himself quietly. He is small — so small — and yet his eyes are large and round. Curious. Yet he does not ask questions.

He tries to pull himself higher and each time, tumbles backward. If I could peel myself away from my responsibilities, I’d help. But I also hate how strongly I feel for this child.

I try not to get emotionally attached to passengers.

They’re not simply passengers. They’re so much more.

But I try to label them as such.

We all have our rules to keep everything in tact. Most of all, our sanity.

But this boy, humming, in my little dinghy, snuggling in the curve of the bow of my small little boat. My gondola. My ferry barely accommodating us. This boy? He holds my heart.

And I hate that he does.

He’s young. Maybe eight. And children are notoriously the most difficult passengers. Yet when he first gets on my ferry, he tries to introduce himself to me and I interrupt him, as nicely as I can, asking him not give me his name.

It makes it hard to stay professional.

At the end of our ride together, as I’m about to hoist him to shore, he says, “It was nice riding down the river with you. Can I tell you my name now?”

I offer him a sad smile, lifting him to the land. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

He nods. “It’s just a job, huh, mister?”

“Ain’t that.”

He shoots me a quizzical glance. I don’t want to explain. Don’t get attached.

“Oh,” he exclaims. His big, blue eyes meet mine, appearing even wider. “Is your name Karen?”

I bite my tongue.

“That’s weird, no offense,” he continues, “that’s a girl’s name. Anyway… I found a gold coin. Don’t be grossed out, but I found it in my mouth. I want you to have it.”

He hands it to me. It’s not real gold — just foil. The foil isn’t soggy or peeling — just soft. So, I pocket it, and as I place it in my pocket, I watch him walk closer to the shore.

“Hey, kid,” I call.

He turns.

“My name isn’t Karen,” I tell him.

He stares at me, open-mouthed, as I peel apart the gold coin and pop the chocolate into my mouth. “It’s Charon, and we just crossed the River Styx. This candy was your entrance admittance into the afterlife.”

He continues staring, but as I bring my oar down into the river’s water to turn to get my next passenger, I hear the quiet plink, plink, plink of the boy tossing more chocolate gold coins into the water.

And all I know is I have never wanted to save a soul as badly as I’ve wanted to save his.

Isabelle Palerma

A prompt from Jerald Wegehenkel: “chocolate coins for the ferryman”.

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

The Dinner: a Short Fiction

“Write a scene set around a table. Communicate each character’s emotions only through how they interact with food.” ( July 4, 2026, Molly Aitken.)

Ethan Porter spears his ribeye and carves into it, barely ripping his gaze from it as his daughter Frances speaks in hushed tones. Frances had returned home from college the night before. He crams a bite of the thick chunk of meat into his mouth, chewing noisily.

Frances swishes a bit of the dry Merlot in her mouth before dragging her fork around on the plate, moving around a few pieces of wilted spinach. She glances up. “Mother,” she says, her voice nearly a whisper. “I have something to tell you.”

Ethan gulps down his gigantic bite and belches. “Whatever you have to say, you can tell both of us.”

Frances’ eyes dart over to her father. Gingerly, she scrapes a tiny bite of potato and chews it. She nods, swallowing the morsel. “Of course.”

Her father continues to shovel more food into his mouth, chuckling to himself. As he loads his fork with meat, he urges Frances with a grunt, “Go on.”

Frances glances at her mother. The girl, lost in thought, drops a small spinach leaf onto her tongue and closes her eyes briefly.

Jessica, Frances’ mother, cuts her ribeye into cubes and when she is certain neither her daughter nor Ethan are paying attention, slips the steak pieces underneath the table to their hungry beagle, Juniper. As soon as she sees Ethan’s beady eyes flash in her direction, she snaps to attention and devours her ribeye with a forced smile.

Then, her wan grin intact, she turns to her daughter. “What is it, doll? You said you had something to tell us.”

Frances sighs and drops another bite of potatoes into her mouth. She chews them silently. She doesn’t speak.

Finally, Jessica breaks the quiet. “It’s not your…” She hesitates. Things like this are hard to bring up. Sensitive. “You’re not…” She pauses again. “Are you… are you in any kind of trouble?” Jessica finally asks, chewing her ribeye so carefully it looks as though she is chewing gum.

Frances’ mouth drops open. A bit of spinach clings to the gap between her front teeth. Had her fourteen-year-old brother Lucas been home, he would have either laughed at her or pointed it out.

Instead, the silence is spectacularly loud.

Finally, she dabs her mouth with a napkin and shakes her head. “No, Mother,” Frances responds firmly, “I’m not in trouble.”

“Then what is it?” Ethan booms, grabbing his bourbon glass and chugging it down as though it were cheap cola — not an expensive liquor.

“Is there any dessert?” Frances asks, glancing away.

“What the hell is going on?” Ethan demands, rising from his seat.

“Daddy, please.” Frances gazes up at him, a bit of ribeye still dangling from her dinner fork.

Jessica, who has been feeding Juniper scraps, glances over at her husband. His face is red and puffy with anger, and his hand is still clenched around the glass. He stabs the ribeye with his fork and bites into it, ripping into it with his teeth and glaring at his family.

“It’s nothing really,” Frances insists, “but I have switched majors.”

Ethan’s eyes bulge out, and his already ruddy face goes more scarlet. His cough is harsh and brash — more of a bark than a cough. When he finally stops coughing, Frances tells them, “I’m no longer studying political science. I’m majoring in Art History.”

Ethan’s head slumps down, the bite of ribeye dislodges and his eyes roll back in his head, watery, unfocused. He rasps out a few mumbled words, then tries again. On his second attempt, they’re more clear but still muddled.

“It doesn’t matter,” he chokes out, slouching forward, “you’ll always be a failure to me.” With one final gasping breath, he falls face-first into what’s left of his mangled steak and mashed potatoes.

Quietly, Jessica stands up and gets a cloth napkin to wipe the meal from her dead husband’s face.

The rest of the dinner is silent.

Isabelle Palerma

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

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.