· writing ·
“There’s so much piss on the seat. I can’t really be mad — that’s the beauty of all-gender restrooms. I give it a wipe before I perch. Other than that, it’s surprisingly clean for a club bathroom. The bathroom of a club. White-tiled oasis from the dirty stinky sticky sweaty jungle of the dance floor. Whatever your longing might be: a space to cry, a private spot to dip a finger into the baggie in your friend's bra, somewhere a stranger might attempt to help you get the wine out of your satin leopard print shirt that, of course, you ruined the second you stepped away from the bar. The sexy enby bartender definitely saw.”
— The Road to ManRay’s Resurrection, Fifteen Minutes
“Sitting atop the steps are two people who tell me that at night, their thoughts go Big Picture. They like to sit up there for the vantage point, good for stargazing. “We saw a shooting star last week,” they tell me. I ask them what they wished for: “To create a happy family,” says one. “You stole mine!” exclaims his friend. “I want to raise good kids.”
Then she points. “I like sitting here because you see stuff like that.” Across the steps, two people are busy being passionate, wrapped in each other’s arms and making out intensely. Mmm. A kiss like that would be nice right about now.”
— The Night Shift, Fifteen Minutes
“When I told my mom I had started going to church, she was shocked. I am the product of an interfaith marriage. My mother is a non-practicing Catholic; I’m sure she wishes I went to Mass with her more. My dad is a Jew, and my parents ultimately chose to raise my brother and me as Jewish — only after breaking up numerous times before their engagement over the issue. We always have a Christmas tree, but just as reliably, someone always cries on Christmas.
My mom’s first question about Morning Prayers: “As in, they believe in Jesus?” Her second question: “Did you tell your father?””
— Hungry for Manna from Heaven, Fifteen Minutes
Stay tuned to read Maya’s poetry, which will be published somewhere, somehow, in 2025.