Creative Writing

I was not born small, though you liked to press me into corners and call the shape I made my nature. You thought wisdom arrived with soft voices and folded hands— that it wore Sunday shoes and waited for permission to speak. But mine came differently. Mine arrived barefoot, hair unpinned, heart too large for the frame you kept trying to measure me against. I carried whole worlds in my chest, maps of futures I was drawing before I could name them— and you called it foolishness

The fruit stand leaned against the corner of the street like an old friend, its wooden planks warped by rain and sun, edges softened from...

May I never leave the One who slipped away from the ninety-nine, their wool like a living cloud, their bleating a lullaby of safety,...

I did not expect it the way his voice carried the same weight I have felt in the pauses the same silence stretching wide  when he speaks...

I arrive loudly dripping in gold crowned in heat trailing with fire I kiss the ocean’s edge .and watch it flinch But the kelp the kelp...

~ inspired by the story of Delilah   he came to me like thunder wearing skin a storm walking upright hair like unspoken prophecy his eyes...

A storm on bare feet tracking mud into the kitchen— not clumsy, but certain. The kind of entrance the earth makes when it knows it...

The night was sharp with cold, the kind that creeps into your bones, but I didn't mind. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders,...

a dull throb  a quiet shift  tongue prodding, metallic taste-  loose but not yet lost. fingers grip,  a sharp tug,  roots snapping like...

In a Spanish-style house in Miami, the air hums with the rhythmic clatter of dominoes. It’s a sacred room where old stories are told in...

In the heart of Spain’s ancient hills a statue carved from shadow emerges The Black Madonna The women- a canvas of mystery and devotion ...

The moment it lands —not loud, not dramatic— just a shift in the air. A glance, a laugh that doesn't reach me, a sentence that floats by...

Marta stood in the sunlit orchard, her hands caressing the spotted leaves of orange trees. Each plant was abundant with glowing fruit,...

In the shadow of your footsteps I trace the path you have left behind A constant onlooker to your becoming Your laughter, a beacon that...

Lynzi stumbled through the narrow passageway, her flashlight flickering erratically as if in rhythm with her pounding heart. The damp,...

In the light of dawn,  before the swarm of tourists and the faithful arrive, the Sistine Chapel breathes in quiet solitude. The air is...

In the rarely quiet moments of our home I can hear the beating drums of a familiar place  The smell of Cuban coffee fills the room  And I...

Somewhere between then and now "Stop telling me what to do" softened into "Please—tell me what comes next" Somewhere between then and now...