The Psychic




I’m by myself…

Lost in a crowd.

No one knows me.

No one sees me.

No one cares.

I am a Ghost.

I stand in the group.

Conversation goes around.

Not to me…

They look past me.

They do not see.

 Not my body.

Not my soul.

They do not notice…

The tears in my eyes.

The labor of my breath.

The blood that flows.

I am a Ghost

I am alone.

I am an outcast.

I’m always there.

If one cries, I pat their back.

If one yells, I calm their breath.

If one laughs, I smile with them.

If one dies, I remember them…

I am a Ghost.

They notice me not.

I cry in pain.

They walk a6way.

I hear all.

I see all.

I feel all.

I sense all.

I walk to the crowd again.

There is someone new.

He laughs with his friends.

His eyes catch mine.


Not one word spoken.

Not one smile shown.

Just stares.

He sees me.

He hears me.

He senses me.

The others do not, still.


Es Tut Mir Leid!

Foolish I have been.

To have trusted her; a sin.

Forgiveness I ask.

She was a liar.

Convincing, her fables were.

She made me doubt you.

I loved you so much.

“But there is no trust,” she said.

It seemed like a dream.

I miss you so much.

My heart will never let go.

Yet it is too late.

You are with her now.

You deserve to be happy.

Sorrow is my fate.


Not Enough Time…

I sigh as the sun rise,

Upon the bleak sky,

This is something I despise…

Do you wonder why?

Life is death

Death is Peace

Peace is calm breath

Breath is ease.

No joys will come.

No sorrows will go.

All pain is numb.

All memories are so…

Time goes by.

Life seems gone.

We all must die.

The world continues on…

I am here.

You are there.

No where near…

I wish to not care.

A smile for you.

A stab to me.

A momentary swoon.

And then my heart bleeds.

The sun has set

Another day

Best friends and yet

Soon you will go away…

Cooking Dreams

Cooking is a passion that I have always had brewing in the background of my life, but it was never a driving factor for a career. I’ve always had a fascination with food. Not to eat it, but to prepare it. One of the first things I learned how to cook was eggs. They were supposed to be scrambled, but after a few times of burning, I tended to leave them slightly undercooked. The yellow glistening in the light giving off a look that I have only seen replicated in animated versions of eggs. Being a kid, I didn’t want to admit they were undercooked and just called them “fancy eggs” because of how they shined. This is one of the few instances that my dad will never let me forget. That and “pickle salad” which had more pickle slices than lettuce. No matter the teasing, I always wanted to learn how to cook. How to make my own recipes, and such, but it wasn’t a big deal yet.

It wasn’t until I encountered my first love that that secret calling was pushed in front of my eyes to the possibilities. Jonathan had a way to evoke sides of me out into the public eye. Sides that were buried under a spindly mountain of common interests. Jonathan was not like other boys that I knew. He wasn’t open about his interests and was very reserved, even around friends. Other than me, there have been two other people in our high school circles that were able to pull him out of his shell. Once that was lifted he was able to share with me a secret that he feared he would be mocked for. He loved to bake.

John was always in the kitchen of his family home learning from his step-father about how to prepare different meals. His step-father was a volunteer firefighter, thus was very handy with a grill. Or so my mother would say as a way to explain why John’s food was so good whenever he would leave me something. As if to say he learned from the best. With our relationship getting more intimate, I felt comfortable enough to tell him about my childhood recipes. He just smiled and encouraged me to pick it up again.

My first time in a professional kitchen, I was in high school. My culinary teacher had insisted we spend the first semester learning all there was to know about food safety, including the names, bacteria, and symptoms for every type of food borne illness. Did not regret a moment of those lectures, but I sure wish we had more hands on lesson in the kitchen side of the class. Every day that we did get to put our skills to the test, I was always sure to bring a Tupperware container of any kind. I needed to take back to the main building whatever it was that we made. I needed to show John all that I had learned. He was proud every time.

He was the only one proud of my work. My family wasn’t as supportive and because of complicated reasons, neither were a majority of my friends. It was only me, Johnathan, his best friend and my other friends that chose to stay neutral in all the high school drama and fighting. I wish I could say he supported my decision to pursue a Culinary Arts degree, but our relationship didn’t survive the in-fighting of my friends. After a bitter break up, my family was certain my dabble in cooking was over and done with. I would go back to cooking only for myself and would stop trying to make food for others. They were wrong.

When I finally entered the culinary program at my local college, my heart screamed. My dad was undoubtedly cheering in the back ground as I stepped into my basics class. It took a few extra years after high school graduation to get to that point, but it was more than a milestone. One week later I was learning how to debone a whole chicken.

For the longest time I thought I would never fully be able to memorize the recipes. Never recall how to do certain techniques. But a few months after graduating with my associate, I found myself surprised by how seeing drippings left over from a roast my grandfather made inspired me to turn it into a gravy. How my knowledge of what to do was nearly second nature and if I didn’t overthink it, I was able to impress those that refused to give me a chance. Those that held onto those memories of undercooked eggs, or thrown together messes.

John was not the inspiration for me wanting to cook. He was the key to a locked door. A door I had left behind when I was younger because no one else would support me in it. He was a spark to relight the flame of that passion. The first person to believe in my abilities and encourage me to keep up with it.

Chocolate Truffles

During the month of my birthday, I would notice a few aisles open up in shades of red, pink and white. Aisles dedicated for holidays, for seasons, for events. This month they were stuffed with plush toys that ranged from sizes fitting in my pocket to large than I was a full height. During the weeks leading up to my day, I would branch off from my family as we were shopping to wander down these aisles, admiring the assortments of gifts and cards. I would wonder what would be best to give to each member of my family. Of my friends. Of my classmates. Of these items, there was always one thing that I wanted only for myself.

It came in clear boxes shaped in non-traditional packaging. Pyramids, hearts and even orbs with the items stacked neatly to be displayed. The wrapping on each item was golden and sparkled in the florescent lights of the store. They sat nestled in a dark brown wrapper to indicate the importance of just one. Ferrero Rocher chocolate looked like it was made for the Gods, at least that was what my juvenile mind was convinced of. There was just one problem….

Growing up, my parents didn’t have a lot of money to spend freely. Additionally, my mother was not fond of me eating too much chocolate. Every year I would ask for that one box in exchange for any gift or party my parents could imagine. And every year I was denied with excuses of it being to expensive or too rich or I would get too hyper. As I grew a little older, my imagination for what these chocolate orbs tasted like would get out of hand. All I could think was how much I was missing out. I had imagined this candy would be for classy people. People of taste. People of style. If I were to take a bite, I would be granted this status of class.

In middle school, I finally had my try only to find glass shards where my dreams lied. “Maybe it’s stale?” I hoped as I got my hand on a different box. I take another bite. And another. And another. Each chocolate tasted the same. Each one was dry and filled with disappointments.

For A Wedding

In life, we must all take a stroll.

Down roads of experience and grace.

Yet, the time has come for satin and lace.

As rice is thrown and church bell’s toll,

Expect happiness on this fine day.

The sands between our feet,

Ebb gently back into the tide,

Where love grows far and wide.

Paths leading us all to meet.

Great day to get feet wet.

Come hither all within the festive.

Enjoy the sandals, grab a pair.

To each their own, all is fair.

Join us on the shore in amusement.

Once again, your attendance was pleasant.


Literary Journal Review


A Literary Journal for the Novelist

According to their website, Embark would describe themselves as “a literary journal designed for novelists and featuring exclusively novel beginnings — those crucial first pages that must engage the reader’s attention and often receive more polishing than any other part of the book.” Embark specializes in publishing an online literary journal that highlights the first chapter to 10 books. The variety and genres of the chapters differ greatly, as they do not discriminate against any style. “We believe that crafting a novel’s opening is an art in itself, and that reading beginnings can be both inspiring and delightful.”

The one thing literary journal asks of the authors of these chapters is that the books they prologue are not published yet. The books are either still being finished or in the process of editing, but are not published before the issue in which they are printed in are debuted. It is only the book itself that needs to be unpublished. The author can have any degree of experience. The author can have a history of five, ten, fifteen previously published books. Embark does not care about that; only that they have the brag rights for showing of the first chapter before any other publisher.

“Best of all, a number of literary agents are included among our readers, and several of our contributors have found representatives for their work through Embark.” The issues of the literary journal are released quarterly on their website. The months are scheduled on January, April, July and October. Every issue includes ten novel beginnings, each accompanied by a brief Author’s Statement that might offer a summary of the plot, aims, inspiration, the intentions behind the novel, a meditation on its theme.

            To submit to Embark one must send them two things. The opening of the novel and an author’s statement. The opening must have a minimum 2,500 words or a maximum 4,000 words. The author’s statement is also requiring a minimum 250 words or maximum 500 words. The statement should give the reader a good sense of what the novel is all about and why the author chose to write it. More personal than a synopsis. Above all, it should demonstrate careful thought about the novel’s structure and eventual impact. We are looking for polished, confident work that reflects clear authorial intention.”

Blog 2

Diversion Books is an independent publisher from New York City. They started with ebooks, and now publish in both fiction and non-fiction, in multiple genres as well as poetry. The website looks pretty modern and they have the process for how they work in the submission page. It’s seems pretty promising to me. 

Publishing FAQs

Blog 1

NYC Midnight is a Newsletter that specializes in annual writing competitions. They sponsor and host challenges for upcoming and established writers changing the writing format each year. Over the past few years they have held: Short Story Challenge, Flash Fiction Challenge, Short Screenplay Challenge, and many others. This year the theme is Screenwriting. I was recommended this newsletter by my godmother a few years ago when I asked her advice for publishing. I have been subscribed for a few years now and the competitions are very fun to read. This is something I thought everyone should know about.