Drabbles.

I have not completely forgotten about this blog, invisible people that would ever bother visiting this page.

This particular space has always served as somewhere I strive to be more eloquent with a steadier stream of thought. In other words, this blog was a place to write thoughtfully, with a specific purpose in mind. If the year that's transpired between my last post and this one has been any indication, I've felt pretty scatterbrained (and sure as hell acted like it too). I could not for the life of me think of something of value to post on here, or anywhere really. So I've been using my Tumblr a lot more to reflect that mindset in many senses. Any original writing has been posted there, under the tag "Liliana writes feels." A lot of times, my posts there lack punctuation and is littered with extraneous exclamation points and caps lock because that's just how I choose to convey anything on Tumblr. But anyway. My point is, this blog is a separate entity to that. Or rather, the blogs and their styles compliment each other in some ways. I don't know if that makes any sense or means anything to anyone but myself, but there you have it.


One of the reasons I decided to get my degree in English was to obtain a  better understanding of written language as a tool to craft something admirable. Extracting the beauty from the syntax of a sentence, relishing in the author's word choice to convey a very specific idea or feeling that it actually merits an almost unconscious "oh" as the reader come to the place the author wants them to be, made me fall deliriously and madly in love with literature at a young age. Like anyone involved in a relationship, there comes a time were you take it for granted, this love you have grown accustomed to. It has been high time, for a long time, to get reacquainted with writing, and the literature that helps build the arsenal of words to create my own.

At any event, I was revisiting my writing tag on my Tumblr (url: lefauxami.tumblr.com don't judge me too harshly please and thanks). There was one piece I came across that I wrote seven months ago that references the narrative I discussed close to a year ago on here. A drabble, if you will. A Google search indicates that a drabble is normally a short story that is 100 words or so. While I might have broken that rule with the following piece, I constitute it as such. I absolutely love short works because it forces the writer to truly weigh each word they use, micromanage the punctuation to perform as well as possible. Not to say what I wrote meets my own expectations of greatness, but we need to start somewhere. Hopefully more drabbles to come.

October 6th, 2012.

On those days that were insufferably hot, she would open her window and stare out to the often deserted street. The balmy air seemed to slow down time; even the dust from the abandoned baseball field next door floated without its usual flair. She ran her index finger down along one of the iron window grates that barricaded the house from the outside. Mesmerized by the gentle curve, she would close her eyes and notice the dirty turquoise paint chips springing up from the iron that interrupted her trajectory from one end to the other. The feel of the rust reassured her that the paint was not always so unyielding, that it does become thin enough to float away with the field’s dust. She would trace each of the grates, noticing how different each one felt, how each had it’s own story to share. Some were more resilient than others to the elements the island had to offer. Yet, there they were, pretending to be as strong as they once were, pretending to beautify the house the way they once did.