Beautiful

     This is a short story I wrote for a horror workshop class in my English Master's program at UTC. It is based on my experience in my undergrad program at a cult-like Christian college near a tiny town in rural Arkansas. The horror elements include an unreliable narrator, an extremely restrictive atmosphere, confusion, untreated mental illness, spiritual gaslighting, religious abuse, sexual assault, and murder. When considering what to write about during the horror workshop, I decided to focus on my experience at Ouachita Hills College, because I really didn't have to change many details of my experience in order to write it as a horror story. As far as I know, no one has ever been murdered at the school, but due to the realism of other aspects of this story, it may be upsetting for some readers. If you went to OHC or have any unprocessed trauma about religious abuse, spiritual gaslighting or sexual assault, please take care of yourself. Depending on where you're ...

This is a short recount of an experience I had during a meditative practice, informed by Internal Family Systems, Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, and embodied trauma recovery.  Essentially, I was just sitting in my home office, resting and thinking about how I was feeling. I wasn't using any substances, nor was I short on sleep - this experience happened just exactly how I wrote it, my senses involved, as well as my imagination.  Instances like this put me in awe of consciousness and the plasticity of the human brain.  Here's my unusual take on depression. ----- I sat in my soft bucket chair, and leaned my head back. Pressure radiated my eyes and wrapped fingers around the back of my head, pulling my eyelids down and my head back.  I listened to my body as it told me where I felt the most supported. The chair was cradling the back of my head, creating a tiny bit of traction, or lift. I focused on that sensation as I asked, "What should I do now?"  "Accept the de...

It isn’t always like this. Most days, I feel the light, the expanse of the future, the forward gusts of life. I peer through my spyglass, set my course, and let the wind push me away from the smooth edges of my grief. But in my sleep, when I’m floating unguarded, sails berthed, the undercurrent tugs my anchor loose, and I find myself pouring over the edge of now back into the deep, still pool of loss. The water closes over my head, welcoming me like a lover who knows I will always return. And instead of gasping for air, struggling to escape, I remember I have my own gills, and I let myself sink deeper and deeper until my feet brush the bottom and I come to a rest. I gaze down, past my feet, and see the bottom of this pool is glass. I sink lower, until I rest on my hands and knees, and I let my eyes unfocus as I try to sense you through the translucent barrier. The water swirls through my hair and stings the inside of my nose, the pressure squeezing my heart like a vice. But I wait, as ...

 I don’t know you, but I saw the red-and-blue flashes. A bit of open street before a long line of traffic, emergency vehicles stopped at angles where they shouldn’t have been. A black car slammed nose-first into a cement pole, white airbags pushing outward against the windows. People in uniform stood in the gray dawn, directing traffic, their faces grim. I had just left home. I was on my way to work as the sun rose behind me, listening to my audiobook, thinking about my new job. And then, just past the black car, I saw the twisted, charcoal wreckage resting in the middle of a neighborhood entrance— both wheels still intact enough to recognize it as a vehicle. I noticed where two police cars were parked nose-to-bumper in the bike lane, and through the tiny gap between I saw what they were trying to shield: the lumpy yellow sheet spread on the sidewalk. And I knew. Maybe you had just left home too. Maybe you were on your way back after a long overnight shift. Like I said, I don’t kno...