minutia.
a living chapbook by Mitchell Ny.
How I Became a Motel 6
??? | ???
looming
Why is it always grapes?
??? | ???
looming
No, not those kinds of shorts. 🩳🙈Daily micro-experiments in prose and poetry, each sparked by a single-word VSS365 prompt on Bluesky and X. Every piece is 300 characters or less—sometimes a vignette, a fragment, a haiku. I just like mine enough to stick 'em here too.
7/1/2025 | patriot
all-american
red-scare
carpet bombs
Leveled my father’s home.
cats & dogs
kung flu
msg
Leveled my father’s home.
shackled
crawling
over piles of neighbors
elbows
cartilage
viscera raining
to arrive
to persist
to dream for me
the way this country used to
My father is a patriot.
7/7/2025 | cummerbund
Dew on the bell
of my euphonium.
Pistons gleaming,
My scalp is steaming.
Tchaikovsky is intense, yes.
I’m chastened by
black dots that pepper
the score.
I’d spill my guts
But the cummerbund obstructs
my evisceration.
So I shed it—
Tux and all.
To play peashooter
with the Duke.
Illustration by João Moreno
7/2/2025 | heel
My heel strikes pavement.
Chorus—with a hundred thousand others.
To see if you’d notice we’ve noticed
Bodies washed up on foreign shores.
Tinnitus blooms into vertigo
from our own shouting.
Poppies in the flour
like they traded
poppies for tea.
How much louder
do we need to be?
7/15/2025 | wormhole
Doc exited the Hypermacroscope.“Mona, I saw it.”“What? Let me—”“We are tiny little guys on worm shit after all. Look, how its cavity drags along the orbital paths of the planets.”The Great Galactic Worm birthed planets from its Great Wormhole. Stars from spicy stardust.
Illustration by Alex Kiesling
7/3/2025 | boxer
Baby-blue jeans fly—
Carrying the quiver between your thighs.
Ground convulses to impetuous bare feet.
Socks, boxers, wardrobes cascade—
glittering shrapnel and petals.
& the world shudders at our brisance.
Scattered outfits remain—
& the musk of copper, salt, and steam.
7/16/2025 | innocence
The band of my Moleskine.
Stretched to fatigue to contain pages:
bloated by ink and graphite,
bursting at the seams with blood and salt.
Palpitations through finger and fine nibs;
Longing for the innocence and chastenedness
of shrinkwrap, irrevocably torn.
Oh, what have I done?
7/28/2025 | sparrow
How gingerly a sparrow
picks flesh in
ribbons
lacing
bone.How
precariously
do we hold the bird
in a fist as we raise them?
How certainly do we pluck from them
their plumage & pinfeathers
through downy undercoat
& crested crown
for meat & molt
when all the
seeds have
gone?
june 25 - favs
6/19/25 | vortex
criss-cross applesauce,
half-naked, trembling,
teeth-made metronome
at 1000 bpm—
she sits & watches
her washing machine,
front-loader, with a window.
chasms for eyes, in awe of—
a vortex of fruit punch
& the clang of steel.
a cocktail
of water, murder suit,
and her weapon
that set her free.
PC: Jeremy Perkins
6/25/25 | starscape
when candlelight and paper lanterns
made your eyes a starscape
i found that
even light bends for you
at the curvature of your corneas
-
at the dewiness of your eyelids
forming streaks - meteors.
jettisoned.
decorating my sky with
gorgeous things cratering my soft flesh.
6/3/2025 | nostalgia
Sepia lens welded to my retinas—
Verdant to void,
Sunburst to sable,
I rinse my mouth with ink—
and spit on strikethroughs,
blotting parentheticals.
My mouth is maw—
twitching to taste,
longing to long,
nostalgic for nostalgia.
6/27/25 | moment
Pockets bursting at the seams
Pockets full of junk
cochinadas
有的沒有的
ramassis
I’ve a shelf for these things—
a collection for moments.
It sags at the center
from the weight it shoulders.
6/14/25 | slash
Along the saltwater pond
of your clavicle hollows,
my fingerprints become tire tracks.
Smallhairs raise forests
as they roam.
Goosebumps form new terrain.
Your spine is a map.
A scenic drive to
Venus dimples.
On arrival,
I'll slash my tires
to savor it.
PC: Levi Stute
6/19/25 | vortex
criss-cross applesauce,
half-naked, trembling,
teeth-made metronome
at 1000 bpm—
she sits & watches
her washing machine,
front-loader, with a window.
chasms for eyes, in awe of—
a vortex of fruit punch
& the clang of steel.
a cocktail
of water, murder suit,
and her weapon
that set her free.
6/9/25 | small
A blip-
in the vastness
of the tapestry
of the fabric
of the cosmos.
Mathematically insignificant, yes.
Infinitesimals made of meat.
But in front of the right star,
in audience of the right eyes,
a grain, a blip,
can eclipse whole galaxies.
What does it mean, then,
to be small?
PC: Jeremy Perkins
6/12/25 | shape
Gyoza, Baozi, Wonton.
Her joints ache as
she powders
a surface.
Pierogi, Samosa, Ravioli.
Knucklebones tremor.
She spreads thin
to nourish.
Empanada, Pelmeni, Pupusa.
One at a time, she labors.
All grannies know-
the shape of their love
is dumplings.
PC: Jakub Żerdzicki
6/20/25 | parallel
Yesterday was a decade ago:
my last $5 to share hotdogs and colas,
bruises and lilt entangled us.
I blink—knots pried open by time.
Combed—and we're parallel,
Like creases on our foreheads.
I’ve a jar full of change
I can’t wait to show you.
I’m terrified you’ve forgotten
what $5 meant.
6/25/25 | starscape
when candlelight and paper lanterns
made your eyes a starscape
i found that
even light bends for you
at the curvature of your corneas
-
at the dewiness of your eyelids
forming streaks - meteors.
jettisoned.
decorating my sky with
gorgeous things cratering my soft flesh.
6/27/25 | moment
Pockets bursting at the seams
Pockets full of junk
cochinadas
有的沒有的
ramassis
I’ve a shelf for these things—
a collection for moments.
It sags at the center
from the weight it shoulders.
6/7/25 | someone
Is this who I want to be?
Somebody is weighty-
tactile & present.
Or I could be Anybody-
and personify raw potential energy.
Anyone and No One are safe-
in facelessness & in ambiguity.
Semantics aside,
I only ever wanted to be someone
to you.
6/10/25 | skin
Skin is the clothes
our skeletons wear.
Too long have I wished
to change my outfit.
But just now,
a blizzard becomes a hailstorm.
Pelted by ice,
may our clothes become steel.
PC: Nsey Benajah
6/13/25 | shed
After plumes of tear gas dissipate,
and streets are washed of
blood you’ve drawn,
You’ll shed your uniform.
Your spouse flinches
at your embrace.
Your children love you
fearing marooning hands.
With razors,
you carve folly
on bodies
whose skin
won’t shed.
Was it worth it?
PC: Marek Piwnicki
6/18/25 | realm
Called my mom and dad
"Please bring your passport with you."
This realm rejects us.
6/24/25 | liminal, enigma
No, no, no, no-
You're not listening.
Confusion is the point.
Liminal, lacey, looming
between limerence & love.
They're screaming it at you-
ruptured larynx to
bleeding cochlea.
"This is me"
There is no enigma.
Only folly.
6/3/2025 | nostalgia
Sepia lens welded to my retinas—
Verdant to void,
Sunburst to sable,
I rinse my mouth with ink—
and spit on strikethroughs,
blotting parentheticals.
My mouth is maw—
twitching to taste,
longing to long,
nostalgic for nostalgia.
6/8/25 | speaker
A misfire of synapse
buried in a tangle of neurons
alchemizes.
He is the speaker-
a rock lodged in his throat,
beads of sweat peppering his forehead,
a sharp inhale, a quiver of the lip,
a gentle curl of the tongue to invoke
his first or final "I love you."
PC: Adrian Swancar
6/11/25 | scrape
Both hands overhead,
I drive a fork into drywall.
Levering my withered arms, I scrape:
Four jagged lines, to carve a relief.
The gypsum cakes in my lungs.
Just a million scrapes more;
and daylight,
maybe.
PC: Danist Soh
6/14/25 | slash
Along the saltwater pond
of your clavicle hollows,
my fingerprints become tire tracks.
Smallhairs raise forests
as they roam.
Goosebumps form new terrain.
Your spine is a map.
A scenic drive to
Venus dimples.
On arrival,
I'll slash my tires
to savor it.
PC: Levi Stute
6/6/25 | stop
Red-handed. Red-faced. Octagonal.
The catcher of great metal beasts-
from all sides of a crossroads.
To let a son grab his father's hand as they walk-
a gift.
A nod. A gesture. And great metal beasts resume their paths.
Red-handed & complicit.
Red-faced & observant.
6/17/25 | susurrus
Dank pitch and a rent-a-suit enfolds me. When I was lowered, I counted—this ain't even six feet, it’s four. And I asked to be cremated! If it weren’t so tight, I’d be rolling over. What’s left but the susurrus of critters, wriggling, pushing dirt to come knocking? To take me home.
PC: dada_design
Content Warning
Bodily imagery, decay, implied violence.
scrap/vignette
the flies
Churning, warping, pulling.
Fingers in our guts.
They twist until
you become me
and we are something else.
A mash.
Sweet summer apples
turned sour and rotten.It was pulp
then chafe
then putrid meat
- you should never have come here.
I hope the flies fill your sinuses.
I hope they lay eggs.
- you never should have come here.
-M.
katsu.
[sealed pending publication]
sneaky of you to find me.
-M.
about.
Mitchell Ny is a Cambodian-Chinese and Taiwanese writer based in Southern California. He writes to wring from the mess: the scrappy, the ugly, and the brazenly beautiful. He lives with his wife, their Great Dane, and a highly opinionated pantheon of four cats. Rather, the Pantheon allows them to live in Their home.His work recently debuted in Maudlin House:
She’s a Cigarette. She’s a Cheeseburger.He still feels awkward writing about himself in third person. But that's the norm in the lit scene, apparently.minutia. is a living chapbook.All are of gossamer and steel.-
bluesky: @minutia.works
X: @minutiayaps
email: [email protected]
All artwork featured on this site are credited on a best efforts basis; uncredited images are either created by Mitchell Ny or of unknown origin. If you are an artist and see your work here, please contact me for credit, licensing, or removal.
visual poem
coffin
11 characters on 11 lines, monospaced typeface, #b49588 on #05151e
-M.
micropoem
windpipe
ahem,
lips buckle,
tongue curls—
to form a vowel,
i’ve never spoken.
my chest inflates, then
deflates with air in reply
but I hear and feel nothing.
no hum fluttering my larynx.
a windpipe forsaken by wind.
-M.
microprose / prose poem
jailer
I cook, you clean. That was the deal. I never did change the battery for our living room clock. I measure time by the height of dirty dishes. Each layer is another yesterday. Once patient in the sink, now stacked toward your height - an architectural marvel. A sculpture of you. Layered like sedimentary rock, each plate is proof I was here - but not like this. A glimpse of who I was, aching for who I could have become. Browns, blues, once-greens; congealed and longing.The glass of milk you never finished greets me every morning in all its green glory. Our cats' ears still perk up with every clumsy footstep outside our door and every jingle of keys that don't precede your aroma. They wail in the night, a chorus for you. I sing a softer song into damp linens.Again and again, I forget to bolt the door - bad habit. Maybe if I left it unlocked, the wind could pick up and push it back open, and maybe you with it. Wafts of jasmine, peppermint, basil. Our cats will go looking, for sure. And then they would leave me too.So now, I remember. Always bolt the door.We'll sing together, the cats and I.
-M.
footnote
footnote: hands
The narrator is incapable of naming the loss. They live in the aftermath - not theirs. This has been written many times over to properly capture the externalization of grief. They are not ready to take it in and it should show even through their choice of language.
There are versions where the subject of the aftermath is referred to as "it," but the narrator is in a stage of grief where things are happening to them. Their ligaments fall and fail. The vacancy haunts them. The arms move. None of it is self-reflective yet because they aren't ready.
They haven't eaten enough halves ;)
-M.
poem
hands
Do I usually put my right hand against my hip like this?
Or am I a hand-in-pocket guy?
I forget.Wherever it falls, it fails to land.
The vacancy between my fingers haunts me.My arm swings awkwardly now;
a pendulum that's lost its counterweight.
My hands lived only to answer yours;
yours - now a phantom inquisitor.I expected emptiness in aftermath
but this is dullness - drab and grey.
It would have been better to be broken
than to be born again and brittle.
Life still tastes like cappuccino.
But it’s just hot water and froth.I’ve gained weight now that I eat both halves.
Fine - Because I’ll have to move all this shit by myself.
It cancels out.
Right?
-M.
Art by Lorenzo Quinn
microprose
the angel
Excessive chatter. White noise but it's green, blue, purple, black - noise all the same. I hear them when I ponder, when I eat, shit, sleep. When I Am - which is fucking always. Who'd want to Be if this is Being? An eternity of torment I couldn't escape if I tried. An honor, truly.They whine of their 9–5s but can't fathom the eternal weight and dredge of this... forced ear hustling. "Why did you make us?" - yeah, I only get that one a kajillion fucking times per minute. Good question because it sure beats me.But they will take anything at this point - to them even my cosmic shit is gold. So I can fling a piece down every now and again. And it works. It really does. See, Old Man? You should have left a long time ago - if time meant anything at all. They turned Yours into mana and Mine into cold hard cash. Cha-ching!
-M.