Daphne’s Search For Self

        I abhor the thought of loving! This is not due to any downfall on my behalf, I am not hideous, nor difficult.  It is not the fact that no man would ever love me, as I am frequently pursued. What satisfaction does this offer, apart from a chance to run with the forces of air? I take delight in woodlands sports and the spoils of the chase. I run through the rivers, and their bays, through raised mountains, and scooped out valleys. I dance through the woods, fountains and the fertile fields. I frolic in the stony plains. They can’t catch me. The clear air feeds my soul, I weep at the stars appearing softly throughout the sky. I take pleasure in these small delights; some may think me foolish to displease so many worthy lovers. The thought of marriage makes me cringe till I blush with displeasure. Marriage appears to me a crime. Although my father says my face will forbid me from solitude, these trivialities shall not contain me.

        I do not see myself as an object, something to be owned or tied down or even gazed upon for mere enjoyment. I despise how man’s mind goes wild with imagination. I run wild, with the wind through my garments, my hair loosely behind, I taste freedom.  Nature does not take pleasure in such perverted activities as vanity, or love. It is a free flowing entity that explains who I am; it embraces me, and sets me free.

The Chefs

They sit around in chequered pants, black and white squares. The maître d’ takes the order.

“Just want some coke man.”

A shopping list: 1 cube, 2 cubes.


They take orders for drugs. It is in their boss’s best interest so they work the machine through hot saucepans—chop, dice—perfection.

“You need base, do you?”

“I’ve got four double shifts.”

“Go away before I just change my mind.”

“May as well,” Maître d’ tries to nudge him.

“I’m getting married. Can’t buy.”

One of the guys in chef pants has blood on his hand.
He thinks it is blood from handling meat or a sneaky nick of a sharp kitchen knife.
Blood on his hand from his knife, chef chopping.

The blood is running out of his nose, the blood coats his hand when his hand touches his face.

The others comment, “Stop sniffing the coke.”


Gabriel Don is a multidisciplinary artist who works in a variety of mediums: a filmmaker, artist, photographer, singer and writer. She has been published in numerous online and print publications. She undertook her MFA in creative writing (Fiction and Non Fiction) at The New School, where she worked as the Reading Series and Chapbook Competition Coordinator. Her poetry collection, Living Without Skin, was released with A Gathering of The Tribes, Fly By Night Press. Born in Australia, raised in Singapore and Dubai, Don now resides in New York City.