Author Archives

Kamille Alexandra

Kamille Alexandra is a Seattle-born writer of mixed descent, living like a fish out of water in a land haunted by many past ghosts: Germany. Her writings reflect her life experiences as being a middle child of a working single mother and how they all lived from box to box, each time those boxes becoming smaller and fewer. Some of her prolific works have been nominated by the World Poetry Movement, selected for publication in 2021 for Aditya Deshmukhโ€™s thrilling 'The Great Void' anthology. She is currently working as a screenwriter for her passion project: PON: Origin of Mecha, an 80โ€™s inspired sci-fi TV series where a former smuggler is drafted into a secret division of the Allied Forces of Humanity where ex-convicts are trained to fight off an alien artificial intelligence bent on human extinction. Further work includes short story works as well as a full-length novel of angel/demon theme, 'Impermissus: The Trials of a Guardian Angel'. Through her books, her desire is that her readers will find hope in the smallest of things and the grimmest of circumstances, wherever and whoever they may be.

I Shall Break My Heathen Ways

Perhaps you may even experience that which transcends our mortal pleasures for one fleeting moment by the one who keeps you warm at night. I have silently accepted I may never. Never have I tasted that of angels. The most I have ever experienced was to have held hands with one for one moment in time, suspended in memory, a memory that partially exists and partially does not. If I were to tell you how I think of you, what I think of you, youโ€™d be frightened.

The Dutch Siren

Winds the Lord sends in His anger at your folly and manโ€™s; winds the Lord sends in return for your heathen sacrifice of His love for a manโ€™s. And when those same men deem you shipshape no longer, too old and no longer fair in their eyes, theyโ€™ll replace you with another idol and cast you coldly to the sea once more.

The Soldier With the Port-Wine Stain

So, tell me, when you see the face of the governing body of this great land and all they uphold as true, this fairy tale they call democracyโ€ฆdo you see a faultless image, like a dream without any error at all or do you see it? Do you see the port-wine stain? Red and glaring? Signalling like the truth? May the spirit of my forefathers, the calloused over hands of the blue-collar workers, and the sackcloth covered corpses that line the front lines, as Iโ€ฆmay you be the port-wine stain on this country now.

The Beacon of Hope

Young Alex considers the goddess her only friend because she doesn’t have any. Her parents don’t allow her to play with the kids in their neighbourhood since they’re ill-mannered, but it’s okay with her because she thinks they’re too loud, and she doesn’t like loud. Her only playmates are her nephew and her two cousins, who live on the first floor; but they’re all boys, and they suck at conversations that aren’t about robots and toy guns, so when she’s not in the mood to play with them, she’ll be alone.

The Graveyard Breathes

Buried a little further, in sodden soils and balding grass, are the manifold agonies hardly ever silenced. These are the shadows that follow me everywhereโ€• etching themselves onto my skin, digging deep with their claws, infiltrating my purpling veins, rusting the way I see the world. They are the screams and wails that scraped my throat. Here lie the sins I havenโ€™t forgiven myself from, perhaps I couldnโ€™t, for ten, twenty, thirty more yearsโ€•not until the lips that utter the apology learn not to tremble terribly to speak of forgiveness.

If Rome Didn’t Burn in a Day, Why Did We?

You once told me that you didnโ€™t believe Rome burned in a day because great things donโ€™t fall apart like that. So when you held my hand and promised to hold everything that comes with itโ€•sunshine and stormsโ€• I believed in you. I let you in with all the trust I could ever give. You did not rush me with my walls and so I put them down. When you asked about my scars, I told you their stories without holding back the ugliest details, and you kissed them all to heal. For the first time, I felt infinite. It didnโ€™t matter if I would forget writing sad proses, even if thatโ€™s what Iโ€™m good at.

The Murderers and Other Unsent Letters

You’re tormenting me like a restless, malicious spirit I can’t be rid of. You shall be an ever-present reminder of my cowardice, of my original nature long-lost and yet too, a beast discovered that’s forever concealed in me; one that hungers, thirsts, craves.

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