Welcome to my portfolio! I'm Victoria Sosa, an American author, performing poet, and screenwriter. I specialize in narrative and surrealist fiction. My work centers around nature, relationships, and identity. My time abroad as an international student and solo backpacker inspires my art through themes of transience and seeking “the strange.” Simultaneously, my upbringing in the deep southern swamps of Louisiana leaves a signature gothic quality to all I write.
FICTION
SOME MEN ARE DOGS
I started following her a few weeks ago. I know it's been weeks because the chicken she gave me is still there. The bones have turned brown like the leaves and the color of the shoes she wears. Her concrete-flavored white sneakers have been replaced with a furry suede that sticks to my tongue. I hate how the pieces of fake fluff melt in my mouth, but it makes her laugh.
I noticed her laugh first. The sound was sharp and withering, so much like a wounded animal that I pounced from my hiding spot underneath the broken metal stairs of an abandoned store. She looked at me, mouth still open, clutching a box of chicken. She bared her teeth.
“Are you hungry, boy?” She threw her last pieces of chicken to me. I caught one midair and was satisfied by the instant crack. I ran up to her for more, licking at her feet.
A Beach Day in Therapy
To Carmela, blood in the water looked like her cousin’s explosive diarrhea in the pool. Carmela’s mind was a safety cage soon to be breached. In the waiting room of the University Counseling Center, she imagined being eaten alive by sharks.
“Carmela.”
Paolo greeted her at the door. She suspected he was excited. Like all the university therapists, he was still getting his MA in Counseling. If she were a therapist-in-training trying a trauma exercise for the first time, she’d be excited.
“Feel free to lie down on the couch,” Paolo said.
"SMUT"
He asked me if I had ever written sex before, what I knew about how people fucked on clean, white pages. He asked me to write him a sex scene.
I said yes because I thought it would be funny. I thought we could read it together and laugh. I thought we could sit close while we read it. I thought this would be the closest I could get to his body.
He’s in the story. He’s the introspective hiker caught in a rainstorm. At the beginning, he puts on his jacket. The same dark blue jacket he left on my couch. We were so tired that we talked with our eyes closed. I asked him if he’d be able to drive home. I didn’t ask him to stay.
POETRY
"Reasons to Never Love Anyone (Not Even Yourself)"
"The Bitter Brood"
"I'm Sorry For Being Dramatic"
