Marti Maley
Bio
Hi 🙂 my name is Marti. I am an artist and healer living in Alaska & Arizona. I believe in good coffee, chihuahuas, and mental health. I love connecting with fellow artists💛 @msmartimaley
Achievements (1)
Stories (34)
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Mother Snow
Jenny is awake… but she doesn’t want to be. Her eyes scan the murky world beneath her eyelids. She imagines the sun reaching to her with microscopic Mickey Mouse hands; the white gloves grabbing fistfuls of her lashes as if attempting to pry them open. Jenny’s eyes are usually the last to surrender to the concept of being awake. Besides, she likes the idea of seeing with her eyes closed. She has always been fascinated with beams of light, the strange shapes, and the colors that have no name.
By Marti Maley4 years ago in Fiction
Manic Marti (Part 1)
October 2018. Los Angeles. It was a difficult time. The #metoo movement was in full swing. I remember looking at Facebook and seeing the stories pop up, one after the other. It was powerful and devastating, important and triggering. Like so many other people, my own sexual abuse was very difficult to process because I couldn’t remember most of it. So when the stories started flooding in, it made me want to remember more, so I as well could participate in what looked like a cathartic way to release my own story while inspiring others to speak up.
By Marti Maley4 years ago in Psyche
Bath time for Beatrice
An eyelash, caked in magenta mascara is perched on top of a translucent pink bubble. As the sun began to rise after yet another sleepless night, Beatrice sank deeper into the lukewarm water. She had been soaking in dollar store bubbles for four hours now. She tried wiggling her toes, but they were numb from all the scalding water she had been dumping on them every time she started to get cold. A periodic practice, she thought glumly. She rested her cheek on the cold, bubble-gum colored acrylic. Surprisingly, her wine glass waited next to her untouched. For the first time since she had started dancing, she didn’t want to drink after work. Beatrice closed her eyes. It had been such a terrible night. ‘Beatrice,’ a voice sneered. ‘What kind of name is that? BEAT-RICE. Not exactly a beautiful name, now is it?’ The voice belonged to a man she had met earlier. He’d been a waste of time: drunk, rude, and worst of all, broke, but his words continued to linger. She thought using her real name was smart, especially since Beatrice wasn’t something you heard every day. But no one even believed it was real.
By Marti Maley4 years ago in Fiction