Mya Doerksen
Bio
Hi there, I'm a student, a writer and an aspring author. At the moment I'll mostly be posting shorts, school assignments or challenge submissions.
Stories (25)
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Blue
I find colours tracing the entrails of syllables and lines. There are music notes hidden beneath the vowels and periods and every little word has been used a thousand times. I associate family with weekdays, and weekdays with colours. The most calming and beautiful one writes poems for me. I wish I could wear it and hold it in the palms of my hands, to paint it over my body and dye my hair and skin the brilliant butterfly colour. Here, have some blue, calm yourself. Yellow sweaters. Turning blue-knots. Sitting silently in the crying rain. Teeth churning into milk, pooling endlessly onto the rusted rails of an old subway station named red with the Abyss. Forget-me-nots lace the tracks, resembling the liquifying amnesia I choose to forget.
By Mya Doerksen2 years ago in Poets
Short Talk on Sound
There is no surface where water could fall and not become a soothing melody. Most days I will lie awake on blue bed sheets, stare at the wall, while Enya plays on my iPad. Other days there will be jazz or rain soundscapes. I listen to Lemon Demon and Toby Fox in car rides and during classes, to drown out unwanted noise and focus on the schoolwork and the songs made with love and care, and the chaotic choruses.
By Mya Doerksen2 years ago in Poets
Teddy Bear
You fight off the nightmares so I may hibernate in whimsy. The shadows under my bed and creaking floorboards cower. You bear no steel, just brown curls, a scuffed nose and crooked eyes; an orange thread that connects your snout, that I still kiss goodnight. A small rope coils around your neck, that I once thought kept it in place. Brown string defines your paws, I hold gently in my cradle. No claws, no fangs, just love and hope. You are the silent protector. The defender of the dreamy. The king of the forest.
By Mya Doerksen2 years ago in Poets
Morning Drives with Dad
The murky sky expands on the journey to school. The sun yawns, the radio a whisper. Decrepit bowls of morning porridge click in the backseat. I’m staring out the window, watching as we roll by dreary clouds, sleeping trees, bronze fields of elk, and the butte in its dry spectacle. Between the quaint Marysville streets, I notice the vacancy of the stag. We sigh in serenity to the sounds of Spa. Fingers fiddle with leather folders and pick skin in detested rhythm. The guilty silence from our estranged connection, only broken when he coughs “What’re you thinking about?”
By Mya Doerksen2 years ago in Poets
