The journey of this perfume bottle originally started back in Washington D.C.. It got refilled for the first time in Chicago last year and again this year in Seattle and just came back to me in Colorado Springs- traveling the nation all alone without me, making me think of the doll of the dwarf from the French movie, Amélie. Every time I take a deep breath after spraying the perfume, it still makes me feel like I can achieve anything in this world, continuing to perfectly function as my ultimate daily motivation booster.
Category: Creative Writing
“You’re doing me good, America”
“You’re doing me good, America, and I think I can do you even better,” she whispered as she placed her cigarette on the ashtray before she burned her right hand.
The red Channel nail polish on her tiny fingers and the red lipstick on her lips made her fair skin glow as her long blond hair reflected the lazy afternoon sunlight that entered from the tiny half-open window of the one-bedroom condo.
“I bet you can,” he said, gently stroking her cheek, and continued, “I really think you can.”
The echoing siren of some police car outside didn’t seem to bother her at all. Neither some random shouting man, standing a block away, meant anything to her. She was honestly too good for that. She was stronger than any of that. As she slowly stood up, grabbing the keys from the glass table, she picked her black purse up from the floor and walked out of the door.
© 2018 Miki Martinez
The Definition of A Poem When I Was Twenty
A poem is…
The sounds of rain during June,
The red glow in the morning sky on the New Year Day,
The tears of last night,
The very first heartbreak at the age of fifteen-
The emotions and even
The senses are
Transformed into words and
Meet the rhythm of a language,
Somebody addresses the words
As beauty and elegance.
The truth is I still do not know
What a poem is.
So please, just let it be
So undefined and
Just let it be the riddle
Extended to eternity.
© 2016 Miki Martinez
“What have I done?”
She wakes up, feeling the huge pang of regret. This is certainly not about hangover. This is not about one-night stand, either. She wishes things were simpler like that. She has gotten over those sorts of craziness when she was twenty-three. Really.
The dazzling summer sunlight that enters her bedroom window does nothing to uplift her mind. But, maturity she has acquired over the years prevents her from crying. “Tears based on your unstable emotions are the only privilege of a teenager,” she thinks to herself. Negative feelings won’t solve anything.
She drinks a big mug of black coffee, desperately hoping that the act completely changes her mood for the better like a shot of tequila, though she is damn sure that won’t undo what she has done last night.
She brushes her teeth, washes her face, gets dressed, puts her makeup on, ties her hair, a ponytail, to hide the necessity to get a haircut and wears her favorite Pandora bracelet and Tag Heuer watch: her lucky charms. May today be a good day!!!
As she walks to the station, her unconscious thoughts automatically replay last night. Instead, she tries to focus on the beauty of the green leaves of the trees on the streets and watches people walking by and wonders why not many women wear skirts here in Germany when a majority of them seem to have tall amazing figures that fit perfectly in cute summer dresses.
She sits comfortably on S-bahn train and looks at Rhein River from the window, which is the very moment she feels truly grateful for her life in Germany. She loves how the water shines, reflecting the beam of the sun. Positive energy fully charged. It does not mean that she is dying from the terminal stage of cancer like her mother. Maybe, her mother IS the sunshine. So, come on, let it go.
As the train goes underground approaching Frankfurt, she looks at herself through the window. The fingers on her lap are still tightly crossed. Three stops later, she gets up and walks towards the city center with the mass amount of tall people. She voicelessly whispers to herself, I can handle this.
© 2016 Miki Martinez
I Can’t Write.
Here I confess: I can’t write.
For a long time, I do suffer.
Two mugs of coffee later, still a blank page on my iPad screen.
In my head, dead boring words.
Frustration growing- this ain’t me.
Work and responsibilities- emotions blocked by rationality.
Me- 31 years old.
Innocence reduced- so darn stable.
The background song: Ellie Goulding
Intuition, here I follow.
Still I confess: I can’t write.
© 2016 Miki Martinez
The Modern Tokyo Version of the Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen
It was a summer day in August where the concrete of the road reflected the heat of the dazzling sunlight. It was a busy day in Tokyo, where the mass amount of people constantly walked with hasty steps and disappeared into and appeared from buildings.
On a such day in a such place, this girl, who was almost sixteen, had to sacrifice herself to survive. As her mother could not affort to send her to high school, this was the unbearable nightmare when the normal girls of her age enjoyed shopping and summer vacations.
Her job had to be simple, for the work that kids without education could do were limited in this advanced country, but she was against committing any crimes.
What she had to do was to distribute the packets of the pocket-sized Kleenex, whose covers were the printed ads of the notorious loan shark company, to those walking people.
Who to blame was her father who had disappeared five years ago, leaving the crazy amount of debt. Who to protect was her mother who was currently hospitalized due to her chronic heart disease, incapable of working. Poverty was the pronoun of hers and her fate was cruel.
For hours and hours, she kept on distributing the packets to all of the people she could reach to. Her fake smile brutally hid her exhaustion and the sunburn made her skin uglier. Some received the packets and some did not. It was the job with no thank-you. The sweat running on her skin inside the pink tank top and her wet long hair gradually absorbed her energy. Those people were so unfriendly and her fate was indeed cruel.
As the sun rose over her head, her exhaustion reached its peak. The world was demanding too much of her. She could not stand this.
She crept away from the central road to the dark alleyway and started to wipe her body with the Kleenex. The more she wasted the tissue papers, the more she thought and worried of her sickened mother. But, the more she used the tissue papers, the more she could be free. Her mind was filled with the happy moments from the past when her fate was still gentle.
The Disney Land she went with her parents on her 8th birthday, the delicious miso soup her mother used to always make for her breakfast, the piano contest she participated every year till she turned 10, the boy from junior high school who once said he liked her. The memories came and went like a cool sea breeze.
When she finished the last packet of the tissue papers, she took a deepest breath and silently collapsed to the ground.
- “Tissue-pack marketing is a type of guerrilla marketing that is a phenomenon in Japan. Companies use small, portable tissue packages to move advertising copy directly into consumers’ hands.” by Wikipedia
© 2015 Miki Martinez
Dear Our Beloved Golden Retriever
When the yellow-whitish-haired angels were about to sleep on the warm blue carpet, the outside world was already surrounded by the cold darkness. It was the snow-colored February, their birthday, their a-day old. Sniffing the smell of the brand new world mixed with bitterness and sweetness, their curious brown noses searched for the milky scent of their mother. It was the perfect family structure of the beautiful golden retrievers: a mother, two sons and three daughters, perhaps their happiest moment together when the love was the only thing they knew of.
Sorry that we broke it. Sorry that we changed your destiny. When your half- opened light brown eyes shone like marbles, we thought you were the most outstanding beauty among your siblings. When your lively moving small legs kicked your sister, trying hard not to sleep, you were actually the healthiest, so tomboyish. That was how we fell in love with you. And you eventually became the princess of our family with your girlish looks and boyish attitudes though you had to be far away from your mother.
Your wild white teeth broke your wooden toys whenever you got a new one. You stupidly got hit against the big gray walls and the tall telegraph poles many times, making loud noises like bicycle accidents. And, you became as gigantic as a human child, making your hair grow gold. Even though you were such a big blunderer, you really had no flaws. And you know what? You were so loved by us and everybody else. You lived for six years like that, such a short and tiny life. Were you ever happy? What are you doing above the clouds now?
© 2015 Miki Martinez