Featured on Eleven of Spades
The Wine Replenisher
Recently Added to Blanca’s Notebook
Waterfall
I remember sitting in my high school U.S. history class and seeing this scene for the first time. I remember feeling so confused when Uncas took Alice in his arms and stroke her hair and put his lips against her forehead. I remember a clear mixture of confusion and expectation. Where was this coming from?…
Slippery Hands
It shocks me how easy it is to leave a place. I don’t mean, easy for me, I mean how easy it is in general. In its raw practicality. Its sheer, neutral simplicity. Withdraw. Pay. Don’t return. That’s… it? Sure. That’s it. Nothing else? Nope. It’s as simple as that. No tears. No letter of…
Instagram Posts
My art and my writing are handled in two very different ways: To put it simply, I make art to share, and stories to hide. I’ve talked about getting lost in the sheer mindlessness of making art. The oblivion it brings upon me to draw. Remember? And I’ve told you that writing requires presence of…
Portraits and Paintings
I asked my dad the other day what I ought to draw next. My inspiration had disintegrated and fallen like dead skin, like dust, on the floor and the table and the mattresses. He looked at me and said, shrugging, “I don’t know. Draw this house. Draw it from the outside, with the Christmas lights.”…
Recently Added to Short Stories
A Rose for Ricardo
for my dad I want to talk about the man who painted roses. His name was Ricardo and he never knew no rose, merely painted them. He painted them everywhere. Everyday. For everyone. He painted on walls, and on cardboard, and on thick paper, on stone, on glass. He’d mask ugly words with reds, with…
The Reading of Phyllis
a short story She was sweet, and a little sad. He had always felt a terrible pity when he looked at her. And yet he had never felt sadder than when he saw her now, a printed image, between his hands, between the lines. There, on that paper, in that thick swarm of ink and…
The Wine Replenisher
a short story The woman who owned the wine store was named Maureen. She was passionate about her craft. Hence why she was regarded as the finest winemakers at the time she lived. Times before my own, before yours. No matter when it is you read this, she will be centuries away from us. I…
The Fall of Anacleto
a short story I know nothing of Anacleto, the Moor, or his life. I know not in what times he lived. Nor do I know when he passed on. By what means. I know little. I only know that he fell. I’ve toyed around with what this blunt information could mean. It’s been a breeze,…
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