Excerpt
Football Friday Night. Content Warning.
It was one of those magical southern nights in October, and all of the teenagers in town were drunk on autumn and youth. There would be a party after the football game, and youthful concupiscence would be satisfied before the moon set in the morning sky. In anticipation of this, the boys were dousing themselves in Polo and Drakkar Noir while the girls teased their bangs into ski slopes and lacquered them above their heavily mascaraed eyes lined with kohl and painted hot pink stripes on their cheekbones. Def Leppard and Whitesnake blasted from boomboxes perched on dressers and lingerie chests. Pliers were used to zip jeans, and Marlboro Lights were smuggled out of sock drawers and into handbags while condoms pressed their circular imprint into dollar bills in wallets in back pockets.
By Harper Lewis5 months ago in Fiction
The Siren of Vanavara
The shack stood out among the snowy forest. Its rotting wooden panels and chipped roof tiles gave way to its dilapidated state. My boots crunched in the thick white powder around me as I drew closer to the door. The windows have been long since boarded up and are caked with dirt. There is no seeing through them to what lies inside. Many people have speculated to the horrors that were locked within those four leaning walls. My mind kept to the idea that it was simply an old shack meant to serve as some sort of a halfway house during travel, or even a temporary lodge for a hunter.
By Gunnar Anderson5 months ago in Fiction
Avoided Spaces
The reasons you choose to shy away and seal those doors, my dear, only need make sense to you For only you can open the door and welcome the healing. Only you know when to cleanse the heartache and repair the wounds But, be careful not to let those things fester too long, there’s a monster lurking inside of that room. And he wants to press harder, that thorn in your side, so it will slow you down and seal your doom. Stirring dissension and keeping you chained from the freedoms that forgiveness offers, keeping you trapped, all alone and wounded, inside that room ***
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden5 months ago in Fiction
The Sand Clock That Stopped On Thursday. AI-Generated.
"First, let's agree on one rule: there is no time. What you are reading now might have happened yesterday, or will happen tomorrow, or perhaps it is happening the moment you close your eyes. The story does not follow a straight path; rather, it breathes and twists like blue smoke."
By elhacene benmami5 months ago in Fiction
Moon’s Gift to the Blind Girl
Elara’s world was not dark. People called her blind, but that was their word, born from their own fear of the absence of light. Her world was built of sound and scent and texture. The rough bark of the old oak was a story of strength. The scent of rain on dry earth was a complex symphony. But the one thing that remained an abstract concept was the Moon.
By Habibullah5 months ago in Fiction
