Aisling Door
Bio
Teller of tales & weaver of dreams.
Stories (13/0)
Guardian
“Dragonfire is deadly because you can’t put it out.” The voice carried on the verdant air swirling around her as she stalked her way through the forest, the dense foliage camouflaging movements betrayed only by the gentle gleam of her scales as stray sunbeams filtered through the canopy. She’d been attracted by the sickly sour scent of fear, something she always associated with prey, before she’d heard the sounds of their voices.
By Aisling Doorabout a year ago in Fiction
Mercy
There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Elai had heard occasional reports of dragons stealing livestock during lean winters, but those occurrences were rare and always happened in the shadow of the mountains. Hunters knew not to venture too high and to always travel in groups–dragons were skittish and avoided large hunting parties, though no one wanted to test them without good reason. Elai couldn’t remember a time when dragons were spotted in the heart of the valley.
By Aisling Door2 years ago in Fiction
Wings of Wax
Russ grimaced as the bark of the pear tree dug into his soft palms. He could climb a tree as well as anyone, but right then he didn’t know if his movements were awkward and jerky because of the burden on his back or the audience. The kids gathered on the ground threw insults at him like rocks, attempting to dislodge his precarious hold on the trunk.
By Aisling Door3 years ago in Fiction
Cloud-Drenched
The world around me had become soft and wispy, out of focus and cloud drenched. Everything was reduced to blurs of chalky color, darker tones amongst lighter, with no real definition or delineation of where one thing ended and another began. I would barely know which way was up and which was down if my feet hadn’t been firmly fixed to the ground. The fog had descended so fast that I hadn’t been able to get my bearings before the world went hazy—I didn’t know what was in front of me or to my sides, which footfall would land securely and which would see me tripping over a log or twisting my ankle in a hole. My host had told me, “Be wary of walking alone in the woods too late, and always stay to the path.” I’d thought she was just being superstitious. I should have listened.
By Aisling Door3 years ago in Fiction
Reclamation
CW: domestic abuse Theo jerked upright on a soundless cry, still halfway in the world of dreams. He stared at the shadows across the room and could swear he saw glowing eyes staring at him from the darkness, the luminous blood-red depths making his heart stutter.
By Aisling Door3 years ago in Fiction
Counting Stars
He watches her from inside the house as she sits in the grass, naked and painted in silvery moonlight as she makes a garland of marigolds. She had been childlike in her wonder, bright and effervescent as champagne with her heart on her sleeve and stars in her eyes. But not anymore. Now she’s dulled, gone flat. He thinks he’s finally broken her, shattered the fine porcelain of her personality and scattered the shards to the wind. She’s fragmented and he has no hopes of putting her together again, nor does he care to.
By Aisling Door3 years ago in Fiction
Pomegranates
My mother always told me that dangerous things lurked in the forest beyond our fields and gardens. Stay to the path, she told me. But the paths and fields were so orderly and neat and exact. There wasn’t any spontaneity or unplanned bits of beauty. Everything was organized in neat rows—wheat, corn, daughter.
By Aisling Door3 years ago in Fiction
All In Due Time
The sound of voices floated to her like dust moats, hazy and meandering. More local kids coming to tell ghost stories about the cabin, she thought. It happened every so often and it always distorted the peace she felt, a dissonant chord in the melodic melody of her afternoon. She lay back and tried her best to tune them out. They’d move on soon, they always did.
By Aisling Door3 years ago in Fiction
Red
It was warm inside the wolf and the darkness around her was a comforting thing that held her in a soft embrace like a summer’s night. Here she could drift off if she allowed it, could lose herself in the warm, dark oblivion that whispered sweet promises of ease and forgotten troubles.
By Aisling Door3 years ago in Fiction