Alyce Mendoza-Solis
Writing
Some of my best pieces written over the years. They are separated according to style of writing.
Essays
Click the Word icon to see the full essay.
Excerpt ::
In this day and age, the internet is no odd thing… for the most part. People have gained the ability to talk to others whom under normal circumstances never would have met. The interconnectedness of the internet has allowed for a world full of greater knowledge, and it is basically a virtual hodgepodge of various different peoples and interests. The large amount of people you can find on the internet from all around the world, as well as their interests, play a huge role in what I am trying to get at, for you see—it is here that you can find the vast world that brings about various worldwide phenomenon… like the Fifty Shades trilogy, by E. L. James.
Excerpt ::
“O, the rain falls on my heavy locks
And the dew wets my skin
My babe lies cold…”
(Joyce, 228) lulls the voice of a certain Bartell D’Arcy from James Joyce’s “The Dead.” Now, you ask, what does this mean? Why are you quoting a song that’s describing a picture of a dead person in the rain? Well, other than the very fact that this story is called “The Dead,” this quote also marks the point that turns the entire story upside down—metaphorically. In this not-so-short story, the scene in which these lines are sung, the scene in which Gretta Conroy—wife of Gabriel Conroy—stands at the top of the staircase, “leaning on the banisters, listening to something,” (Joyce, 227,) marking the point that foretells an event that will create the sensation of feeling cold—the death of the heart.
Excerpt ::
When you read that “…the back side of his wings [are] strewn with parasites and his main feathers [have] been mistreated by terrestrial winds,” (García-Márquez 333) one would first imagine that the thing being described is some parasite-infested pigeon, not an angel. At the very least it is certainly not the way I would picture an angel, but alas, we are in the realm of Magical Realism. “A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings,” is a short story written by Gabriel García-Márquez, an author version of Salvador Dalí, and notorious for writing stories that are borderline maniacal—I mean, magical. This piece is certainly one of his more Dalí-like stories, and is absolutely drenched with more things than just mud and rainwater.
Prose
Click the Word icon to see the full story.
Excerpt ::
Written using only the words from a selection of
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther
There were two German gentlemen. I can’t completely remember everything about them, but one was Mr. Body and the other was Mr. Soul. One, Mr. Body, was unattractive and clumsy, and the other, Mr. Soul, was valiant and honest. The two were astute, and my poor ideas about the two faded like lightning as they began to dance to the harmony of the music.
Excerpt ::
Note: this is a selection of a larger piece.
“Apollo, I have a task for you, my son. A few years ago, one of our most valued test subjects, if not, the most valued, escaped from our laboratory. He is a rather… peculiar man... Who goes by the name…”
…
“Sanjuro… Sanjuro Tempest…”
A man somewhere in his late twenties made his way down the pavement his icy blue eyes were glued to. His jaw was clenched and eyebrows slightly furrowed, before he stopped for a moment and released a sigh. As he stood there, a breeze swept his unkempt blond hair against his elbows and he closed his eyes, recalling every detail of the conversation he held earlier with the Scientist. Opening his eyes once more, he looked forward as he slipped his hands into his pockets and stared blankly ahead. “But the bastard goes by Sanjuro Crest…” he muttered, kicking a rock once he resumed walking, watching as it bounced and rolled away onto the street beside him. The tall blond exhaled deeply as he eventually found the designated bench and slumped onto it, removing his black Stetson and setting it on his lap before allowing his eyes to rise to the sight before him. Another breeze blew by and he remained motionless as his bangs danced before his eyes. Raising a hand to shift the bangs behind his ear, his eyes finally laid sight of the school before him. The front lawn was void, but the parking lot was brimming with cars of all shades and sizes. He glanced at his watch, and sighed; it was still two minutes before the school day ended. Taking a deep breath, he gazed at the school that lay opposite him, leaned back, and waited.
Excerpt ::
Note: this is a selection of a larger piece.
Prologue…
Trees zoomed past, roots were leapt over, and quick footsteps echoed behind him. He didn’t know how long he had been running for anymore, all he knew was that he had to keep running, or else it was going to get him. So long he had been running that the only things he wanted to hear were the sounds of the dead leaves as they crumbled beneath his feet, the sound of his heart beating in his ears, and the voice in his head echoing, ‘Don’t stop.’
And not the sound of the heavy feet as they crushed those dead leaves he had left behind.
By now, his dark skin was littered in scratches, some bleeding and others only red from the irritation. As much as it was annoying to feel the warmth of the blood roll down his arms, he had to remind himself that now was not the time to be picky about such things. Of course, it had to be bleeding all over the new outfit that he had finally gotten the week before, but things happen! Right now his main concern was trying to figure out when he was going to reach civilization. How far away did he end up wandering from the village? How long until that damned thing was going to stop chasing him? He’d curse himself for the rest of eternity if it was only chasing him because he was running, and not because it wanted to eat him. Actually, he probably should have considered that earlier, when the stupid thing told him he couldn’t run forever. The thing was probably toying with him!
World-Building
Click the Word icon to see the full document.
Excerpt ::
The following is the Intro to this World, which was created for something
similar to a Dungeon and Dragons Homebrew Campaign
Welcome to the world of Iistoria, a land where the supernatural and natural have lived side-by-side since the beginning of time and governed by our beloved all-powerful god, Isito! Our land is separated into Districts which are thereby governed by specific minor gods, known as Disciples, in order to ensure peace throughout Iistoria. Here in Iistoria, every humanoid is born alongside their spiritual twin, a Mailin, and some are bestowed an astounding power granted only to those chosen by their District’s Disciple in order to combat the many horrors that plague our land.
We call these warriors Aurimial.
But as in any other story, things aren’t so clear-cut… Not every minor god has been explicitly authorized by Isito to grant a humanoid with these astounding powers, which has created much conflict between our greatest warriors. Come join us in our beloved Iistoria and witness the greatness of our Aurimial!!... And the shadows that follow our every wake.
Poetry
Living Puppets
My friends are living puppets
Who have been
Fashioned for a ten-year-old child
Who dreamt something different every night,
And daydreamt something different
Every class.
They have been
Polished over the course of many years
As time has worn them.
Every day of the year
Is dedicated to one creation.
I argue with a floating jester one day, and
The next, perhaps, I speak
To my favorite puppet
About what to make for dinner.
The days come and go
Like the waves of the ocean
That crawl up and off the sand
At your feet,
Until alas, the last,
I giggle at the distress of a
Nature-loving Hermaphrodite
Who lives in a world of technology but
Knows nothing of it.
March 27th of 2017
Updated dates from original copy, written March 27th of 2013
Four years and thirteen days ago
Back in Denver, coming back from Kansas City, Misery
I was on the road home
Where I had a mother to kiss, a father to hug,
Two brothers to tease, and a fuzzy
Mutt-dog to talk to.
But when I told my mother I couldn’t wait
To see you again,
She paused before she answered, “Si,”
In a voice with no fluctuation of tone.
Four years, one month, and twenty-three days ago
There would no longer be the
Clattering of metal tags which once alerted us,
For eight years in a row,
Of the mutt who slept downstairs.
Symphony
At first there is nothing—there is only a grey, a uniform grey, that fills all the pages, the seats, and the halls. Suddenly bursts of yellows, oranges, blues, reds, and a myriad of brilliant colors spread throughout the hall in random patterns and shapes before they grow dimmer and smaller and finally disappear...
Click the image to read the full poem.