• Masticadores Interview

    Masticadores  Interview


    I recently did an interview with Masticadores that you can also read here. Big thank you to Masticadores and Manuela Timofte for their kindness and interest.

    M. Since when do you write? What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?

    When I was five, I received a bright red hardcover diary with a gold lock on the front accompanied by two miniature keys. At the same time, I was experiencing recurring nightmares about four letters. Every night they’d stand still, towering over me. Their presence and the style of font frightened me so badly I would experience sleep paralysis or sometimes feel myself being pulled toward the letters like a magnet. Luckily, this is where my diary helped calm me (I was a weird kid).

    Inside, I sketched the same things: numbers, trees, sky, sun, a home, and the alphabet, including the four letters that visited every night to fight the nightmare. The lock made what I wrote feel like secrets. A private, peaceful playground no one could enter and gave me confidence. I even wrote rough drafts of entries on scratch paper so they would look neater when I wrote in my diary. Quickly, an obsession with letters developed. They intrigued me with their varying looks and each one had a unique personality whom I considered friends. E was intelligent and quiet, K was my boyfriend because we shared the same initial, S was sneaky, but I would imagine him as my knight against the four letters. From early on, writing became a fun and calming activity to indulge in.

    At eight, I received a typewriter instead of a computer since those were super pricey. Regardless, the love was instant. The powerful sound the keys produced only to see it appear on the paper was magic. Then one afternoon, I started imagining moments, scenes. Dialogue came next, sentences formed. Across the paper they looked like paths. Paths I had characters walk. Characters I made walk. It felt powerful, that zoned in creative control, getaways with a beginning, middle and end. Shortly after, my recurring four-letter nightmares ended. The last one I had, I remember realizing inside the dream that I was asleep in real life and just needed to wake myself up. Once I did, the letters faded. There was nothing to fear anymore. I got the idea after watching A Nightmare on Elm Street. Can you believe Freddy Krueger helped an eight-year-old girl’s nightmares end?

    It was official. I fell in love with writing and gained twenty-six soulmates who would take me anywhere…

    M. Do you consider yourself a compass or a map writer?

    I’ll start writing with an idea in mind and go with the flow. Open the windows or write outside, turn music on, let my imagination and/or mood take over. It feels like I go into a trance where I become invisible, walking a path beside the characters I’m writing about, inside their head, following their footsteps, observing reactions, recording dialogue. Just floating along a flowing path.

    M. In your workday, how much time do you spend writing?

    I feel like I’m always writing. Even when I’m not in the mood there are scenes, dialogue and plots popping in my mind.

    Anything I feel a connection to, I’ll type it into my notes app on my phone and start turning it into a poem or story. Music can influence me, a poet’s piece I admired, the way the sunlight shines on a leaf after rainfall, scents, a person’s eyes, their vibe. Those doses of inspiration are like gifted seeds waiting to blossom into anything.

    To give my eyes a rest from the phone and laptop, I’ll occasionally write in a notebook, which is special because it has the calming effect I felt when writing as a child. Plus, it feels great to unplug and clear my head.

    M. Did you ever consider writing under a pseudonym?

    I did once to hide my writing from an employer but felt like an imposter. The charade lasted a week before I changed to my real name. I had mastered ‘invisibility with pay’ at work anyway, so I figured no one would care to look me up. 

    M. Do you try more to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?

    I try to be original but sometimes doubt sneaks around the keyboard and makes me press backspace, which is something I’m working on not doing as much. Although, I’m no stranger to the occasional explicit scene, if in a courageous mood. They’re fun to write.

    M. Tell us about your latest project. Are you working on a new one now?

    I’m excited to announce my poetry, Hopes and Dreams is published in Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology (2023) which is available on Amazon and features amazing work from incredible writers across the world.

    My short stories and poetry can be found on my fiction blog, Ghost Human Bones.

    M. What would you say is your hallmark as a writer?

    Hmm. It’s difficult to say when I feel like such a novice. Let’s parking lot this question. Ask me in five more years.

    M. Do you think that accessing the reader who reads on a tablet, computer, or mobile phone, in different spaces, (train, bus, metro) can help you be more read?

    The last thing someone wants is to stare at others while on public transportation. It’s easy to turn to a device as a distraction. A variety of reads, both short and long form, can keep readers preoccupied for the duration of their trip.

    M. Do you think Masticadores’s bet in the search for that digital reader is correct? What’s your opinion about it?

    The prevalence of devices around us for hours on end day after day makes it easier for people to indulge in their interests—like reading. Blogs that are mobile friendly prompt readers to return, especially if they like the content.

    M. What has your participation as a writer in Masticadores given you?

    Participation in Masticadores has provided me with more exposure within the WordPress community, as well as insight into other writers and experiencing their amazing pieces. I’ve come across interesting words and kind, intriguing souls. It’s an absolute honour to have my work showcased here among so much talent.

    Featured Image: Team GHB

  • Eyes Like Yours

    Eyes Like Yours
    rain-doused twigs tap my window
    tentacle shadows
    a dying day…
    the sky oozes black
    sprinkled stars float on
    glittering eyes like yours
    watching above

    knocking at my chamber door?

    “A moment of quiet to write a poem is impossible these days.” Sigh. “Come in.”

    “Mommy, guess what!”

    a daughter bringing vital news
    rhyming disruption inserted
    stupid self-narration—can’t stop it

    “I can make my eyes white!”

    “What?” I sit up in my chair to watch.

    she stretches her eyelids wide
    each eye rolls back—dramatic white!
    no iris or pupil found

    “Hah… Super cool. Your beloved great-gran, rest in peace, knew that same trick. It was eerie, but always made me smile.”

    “I know.” She whispers.

    “Huh? I never told you that.”

    “Great Gran told me.
    She’s back.
    Wanna see?”

    Featured Image: Team GHB

  • The Writer in the Family

    The Writer in the Family

    “Um, sure. I read that stuff. All those words, writing just like grandfather.” Cousin Kim’s voice trails off.

    She eye-flirts with the handsome funeral director standing near the chapel entrance.

    “Oh.” Wow… “So… you’ve been to my website? My blog?”

    Strange. We haven’t spoken since sophomore year when Kim ditched our friendship for the popular kids in school… But her sudden interest in my hobby is kinda flattering.

    “All my writing is there.” I add.

    Her nose wrinkles like she smells something foul. “What blog?” The funeral director walks away. “Damnit.”

    I stare at her, smiling.

    “Yeah… You gotta check it out. Get your phone.”

    As if the act is a bother, she groans and retrieves her phone from the leather bottomless pit she’s carrying, taps her sparkly claw nails on the screen, then opens a new browser.

    “Still a nerd.” She mutters. Eye rolls and all. “Now where am I going?”

    “Fuck you Kim dot com.”

    I head to the casket.

    Talking to Grandfather’s lifeless body is better than dealing with this family.

    Featured Image: Team GHB

  • Government Stew

    Government Stew

    “Sometimes I think, when the scheduled clean comes on, the little vacuum wakes up and says ‘Aw, do I have to work today?’ because his job is to vacuum, and it sucks.”

    “Yeah. Maybe he wants to roll away to a better life.”

    “Yeah. He just slides out of the house and rolls down the street.”

    “… With a little blue baseball cap on.”


    “Poor guy. Something good will come of him. I can feel it.”

    Announcer: Give a vacuum a good life. Adopt and convert a robot vacuum of the past, to take into the future, today!

    Planet Earth – In Another Time

    A boy, fourteen years old, lays across a chocolate-colored leather sectional in his living room. His hair is scruffy, dark auburn. Freckles sit beneath dirt marks on his cheeks from baseball practice earlier. Similar marks of rough play are on his white t-shirt, folded atop the coffee table beside an organized stack of homework, left abandoned for the large screen suspended above the fireplace. On it, a still figure of a glossy black, disk-shaped robot vacuum sits on the sidewalk of a quaint suburban neighborhood. Bushy apple trees and the image of kids at play on manicured lawns captivated the boy. It all looked familiar. It could’ve been his neighborhood if people still went outside.

    That’s awesome, he thinks to himself. He stared at the intriguing black box labeled: ADOPT? on the screen then nods his head, confirming the purchase.

    Seconds later, the doorbell rings.

    “Who is that? You didn’t order something off the TV again, did you?” the boy’s mother yelled from the kitchen. He ignored her and opened the front door to find his robot vacuum unpackaged, delivered via express drone, wearing a little blue baseball cap like the commercial.

    Before his mother could see, he seized the heavy disk and ran upstairs.

    Into the evening, in a bedroom that resembled a chop shop, the boy tinkers at his workbench.

    A hammer covered with bot innards stuck to its claw lies discarded on the floor. An organized mess of gadgets and metal parts, deadly tools, and open notebooks full of scratchy designs, measurements, and random thoughts besieged him. Strange, black liquid from the robot occupied the oak-colored hardwood floor and coated the boy’s hands with an odd metallic essence. He worked through the smell. His sharp, emerald eyes move fast behind safety goggles, while his sore, ungloved hands worked hard changing, building, binding.

    He concentrates. Fails. Builds and rebuilds.

    “Ethan, dinnertime!”

    “Okay Mom! One sec!” he yelled back.

    He attaches one last artery.

    He waits.

    And waits…

    “Dinner!” his father boomed from downstairs like thunder at his ear.

    “Come on!” Ethan yelled, banging his fist on the table. He snatched his goggles off, surprised to find the tip of his middle finger leaking crimson life. How did that happen? On instinct, he positioned his finger inside an exposed, smooth tube leading to his creation’s core. Instantly, he felt the blood being sucked from his finger.

    “Ethan?” His father thumps on the door like a compliance officer. Startled, Ethan yanked his finger free. “What’s that smell in there?”

    “Nothing! I’m coming!” he groaned, patience wearing thin. He squeezed his sore finger with a clean cloth to stop the bleeding. “Come on. Come on. Beat!”

    The doorknob jiggles, but it’s locked. There was still time for a miracle.

    “Get downstairs for dinner!”

    The creation growls. Ethan freezes in place, gazing in its direction.

    “ETHAN! I know you hear me!”

    “He’s going to get our home in trouble, John. They’ll think we’re out of compliance if he’s not downstairs.” His mother sighed. Her worries were audible outside his door. “Honey? Come on now, time to eat. The government gave us stew tonight. It’s your favorite, remember?”

    “He needs to get his ass out before they scan the neighborhood,” John said. “Stay here. I’ll go downstairs to get ready for them, just in case. Try to find something to pick that lock. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with that boy.”

    Ethan watched the mechanical beast climb down the workbench, pacing towards him on four legs with its faded silver body, deadly fangs, and missing eyes. “I’m a genius,” he said, laughing, amazed at his handiwork.

    “JOHN! They stopped here!” his mother screamed.

    “Shit.” There was nothing scarier than the government. Ethan ran to his window, finding a black armored truck in their driveway.

    Society had quickly learned the consequences of their actions if they failed to obey the government, and Ethan couldn’t afford to lose his parents.

    He turns back to the beast.

    “Can you understand me?”

    It nods slow.

    “Please, stay here. Okay?”

    It stares at him.

    The beast reminded Ethan of his old brown shaggy dog, Pepper. He died years ago, struck and killed by compliance officers in pursuit of a non-compliant neighbor on the run. The vehicle never stopped, and they gave no apologies for the loss. He never forgot how badly his heart hurt, placing Pepper inside the earth for good. All that remained were memories and his old dog bed.


    He rushed to his chair for dinner. His mother with him, both taking in large mouthfuls of meat from an unknown source, mushy carrots, stiff potatoes, and unseasoned, boring broth.

    Between rushed bites, Ethan glanced at his father standing near the door, preparing for the bell to ring and explain his family’s actions. 

    John looked more tired than normal, grown weary from years of compliance, being someone the government forced him to be. All for a life of suburban slavery and Government Stew every Thursday.

    The bell rings. John opens the door.

    Without a word, a compliance officer, clad in a black military uniform and a digital mask concealing his identity, leans in past John, snooping into the family’s home.

    “Mr. Dust. You had a tardy at dinner,” the officer said in an authoritative tone. He reins in his gaze. “Dinner begins at seven each weekday, with the weekends free to dine at a time of your choosing. Was there something wrong with your assigned government dinner that led to your family’s irregular behavior this evening?”


    “It was my fault.” Ethan wiped his mouth and put the napkin in his back jean pocket as he stood beside his father. He looked like a younger version of him.

    They stare the officer down, and the other two behind him with confident, emerald eyes.

    “I was listening to the musings of our fearless president on her Nation Today podcast. The one where she spoke about adherence to structure. It captivated me so much—I didn’t even hear my poor mother calling me for dinner. My deepest apologies, sir. I’ll keep the volume of my devices at a more suitable level as to not incur another tardy. If it’s any consolation, my mother and I ate half of our stew just now, as did my father during my irregular behavior. But I will ensure I’m on time to dinner during every nightly neighborhood scan going forward.”

    The officer stared at Ethan, then turned to John.

    “Keep your son in line.” He orders sternly. “We will classify this visit as an inquiry and the points on your family’s National Profile will remain unchanged, Mr. Dust.”

    “Thank you,” John nods, grateful.

    The officers head back to their armored truck.

    Waiting beside the door, Ethan waved them goodbye as they drive off. The compliance officer he spoke with looks in his direction from the passenger side.

    Hmm. Did I overdo it?

    He closed the door, thinking about the compliance officer’s long gaze.

    Did he know I was lying? Or is it…

    “Ethan!” John yelled.

    “Shit. The beast.” He broke into a sprint up the stairs.

    Lies ran through his head at the ready, producing multiple excuses to dispel any anger his father would throw at him regarding the abomination in his room.

    “Yeah dad?” Ethan’s pounding heart outraced his thoughts.

    “Thank you,” John said. He hugged his son tight.

    “Yeah. N-No problem. Love you, and all that.” His father’s affection surprised and comforted him.

    “And all that,” John said back, smiling and ruffling Ethan’s hair. “Don’t forget to do your homework. I gotta go calm your mother down. That visit really upset her. Don’t be late to dinner again, alright?”

    Ethan nods.

    Back in his room, he found the beast asleep on Pepper’s old dog bed. Approaching with caution, Ethan sat beside it, stroking its hard metal body.

    It’s cold and doesn’t move.


    Ethan gathered the metal beast in his arms and went into his backyard. Under the cover of darkness, he buried the beast alongside his other failed creations, already deep inside the earth.

    When finished, he sat in the grass beside the fresh dirt patch, staring into the twinkling night sky, wondering if this was all there was: Order. Fear. Disappointment.

    Don’t give up, Ethan.

    A voice called from behind. He leaped to his feet, looking around. No one else was there.

    The beast will consume what they provide so you may free your mind.

    “The beast?” He stared at a tall oak tree where he thought the voice was coming from.

    Free your mind to escape.

    The words became a whisper, lost in the sudden, cool breeze that swept against him.

    He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. Down the block, compliance sirens screeched, piercing his ears, heart, and soul. Someone else was out of compliance. Someone else would go missing again. Another empty seat in his class perhaps, or another funeral to attend. More fatal accidents.

    Ethan thought of stew, the mandatory dinners to come, and the rules meant to be followed just to grow up tired and angry, like his father. Or afraid of everything, finding ease in conformity, like his mother, like the rest of the country.

    Obey. He heard that all his life.

    “Not me. Not anymore.”

    He grabs the shovel and digs up the beast.

    Government Stew first appeared on Ghost Human Bones on August 26, 2021 and most recently on Reedsy.

    Featured Image: Team GHB

  • The Hardest Game

    The Hardest Game

    After unlocking a glass case, the store associate reaches inside then hands the most sought-after video game to my dad.

    “I’ll be at the counter if there’s anything else you need.” The associate says. He locks the case as another customer approaches him for help.

    Dad is quiet. He raises a suspicious-looking eyebrow, staring at the game’s cover art.

    I look around us. Stupid Tom Myers from class keeps poking his head down our aisle. His desperation is potent. There’s blood in the air. He wants this game too, and only this store sells it.

    God… Hurry Dad!

    “Honeybun, what’s this black box mean in the corner, this M-A?” Dad asks. “Does that mean ma? Do you need to discuss this game with mom?”

    “No. It—It’s a difficulty level for the game. It just means it’s a hard game to play.”

    “Hmm. This store is crazy to charge this much, and it doesn’t seem like kids can play it—especially not girls. You’re thirteen…” He uses his eyeglasses like a magnifying glass to see the cover better. “Why is there blood splatter everywhere? And where’s this woman’s clothes? She’s almost buck-naked sitting on… what’s that, an octopus?”

    Great. Same old dad overthinking everything.

    He’s bumming me out so much, it’s making my belly hurt…

    “I think you need to keep up with your babysitting.” He continues. “Save, save, save! If you do, you’ll have lots of money when you grow up. Then you can buy hundreds of these video games.” He sighs. “Except, by then, you’ll likely be waist deep in the game of life and no longer interested in them. And let me tell you something, you think these little video games are hard? Life is the hardest game. But you can win, even when tasting defeat. Remember that.”

    He sets the game on a shelf beside other unrelated items.

    Tom pops out of nowhere. “Heyoo!” he yells and runs off with it.

    Son of a bitch! There’s one game left!

    “Great!” My hands fly in the air.

    I look around. Someone needs to open this case to get the last game, but the associates are busy helping other people.

    “I don’t wanna grow up.” I huff. “I just wanna buy this. Can you help me or something? I’m twenty dollars short. I’ll pay you back after I babysit on Saturday.”

    “Twenty dollars short? What’d you spend your money on?”


    “Choices.” He gives me the ‘you should know better than that,’ smirk. “You’ll have to wait until your payday.”

    Ugh! I walk away.

    I’m so mad I can’t look at him anymore. My belly is in knots…

    I look myself over.

    Why do I feel wet?

    Oh no…

    Now? SERIOUSLY?!

    “Hey, wait! There’s red on you!” Dad’s big mouth yells across the store like there’s an emergency.

    I’m frozen.

    A million quiet eyes are on me. Lips move, whispering. Everyone in the store must know.

    “Honey, it’s on your shorts!”

    I power walk through the store, trying my best to ignore the mini blood pool that soaked through my white shorts.

    “Do you need to talk to mom!?” Dad yells trying to keep up behind me.

    I pick up speed as the automatic doors separate, then run for my life back to our car.

    Life is the hardest game.

    Featured Image: Team GHB