Underneath

“I woke to a rough, shrill inhale. I waited- and there it was again. A breath so sharp and long it sounded like a cascade of shattering glass…”

Last March I joined a short-story writing class. It was still the beginning of the new year, my birthday had just passed, and I was feeling motivated to pursue all kinds of artistic endeavors. This class was the perfect balance of socialization, academia, and creativity. I am so grateful for the experience- it was unbelievably fulfilling!

Turns out I really enjoy writing (and turns out I really love reading out loud!) It takes a very specific focus- practically consumes all of my attention, which is something I’ve lost with painting. When I’m painting, I can watch a TV show or have a conversation while still making progress. I crave a communal studio for this type of connectivity in my art. Writing feels deeply solitary. Moody and intimate. I want to clickity-clack on my keyboard with candlelight and a glass of wine. I can play around with the structure of a sentence over and over without my thoughts drifting. I find this kind of concentration extremely compelling.

I write very slowly- maybe completing something every other month. I have this idea to print my short stories and poems into a zine or accompany them with some other kind of illustrative work. Until then, I’d like to share previews of some writing here. Below are the first few paragraphs of a very short ghost story~

Underneath

By Lexi Villasana

I straightened the coins in my door frame and my finger caught a splinter. I’m sure this has never happened before. The puncture wasn’t too deep. Just a warning bite. Finger to mouth, I checked my balcony for the spider I named Violet. We’ve agreed that if she keeps ants out of my room, I’ll only destroy two out of the four webs she incessantly spins. She’s there, always in the same spot. I wished her goodnight, reminded her to stay the fuck out of my room, and shut the door. 

The coins perplex my visitors. A hidden detail noticed only while removing their shoes. The most common assumption is that they’re some kind of thrifty security system (or witchcraft!) but really, I just like how they look. When they fell out of a pocket in a perfectly straight line, I couldn’t accept it as just coincidence. Maybe I have imbued them with some kind of small magic. Lately, they seem to stir when I’m not looking.

I like to think that my new room is too precious to experience actual harm. My heart is so lonely but my eyes always have company. I live in a secret pocket filled with candlelight, beautiful objects, and flecks of gold. It’s too intimate for casual acquaintances. It’s a jewelry box. But I wish the walls weren’t so thin and that my housemate would stop boiling crab. I am deeply annoyed by the lingering smell of fish. I worry that the walls of my room are remarkably porous. It took weeks to exorcise the previous tenant. 

I have found ways to be comfortable in my insomnia. Nights are for watching video essays on “the horror of girlhood.” Nights are for drafting lengthy and upsetting emails that I never plan on sending. Nights are for unnecessary projects and creative means of self-deprecation. Sleep is for the daytime, and only in intermittent napping. But tonight was different. All the exhaustion I had been avoiding with tiny blue pills had knocked me over. It was demanding. I melted into my mattress at only 11 o’clock. 

Reaching this breaking point was a relief. I imagined standing next to the bed and watching myself sleep. I dreamt that I was at a party, running into exes, and gossipping with friends. A delight from the usual nightmares! I struggled to hear a whispered secret from my dead best friend who loves to visit in dreams. She was mouthing something with such urgency when my eyes opened. Frozen under the covers, I woke to a rough, shrill inhale. I waited- and there it was again. A breath so sharp and long it sounded like a cascade of shattering glass. Was I actually awake? When I was a teenager I used to dream of waking up and getting ready for school each morning. Pulling off the covers, brushing my hair, putting on my uniform. Reaching for the door to only wake up in another dream and do it all over. It was a strange type of purgatory, a boring human task on loop that ended with a confused, resentful taste in my mouth. I tightened every bit of myself into a forced stillness. I knew I was awake. I sat up, picturing a grotesque figure asleep on the floor.

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Thank you, dear reader! More soon~