Arwyn Sherman
Bio
swamp creature that writes stories / chao incarnate
occasionally leaves the bog to forage
IG: feral.x.creature
Stories (16/0)
A field of flowers.
Adelaide had the gift of prophetic vision and, like Cassandra before her, was cursed with no one believing she did. It had been a simple discovery, she dreamt that Jimmy from down the road would careen his bike into the smithereens of darkness and woke to her mother crying at the kitchen table. Adelaide remembered the tears staining her mother’s face, eyes rimmed red and Adelaide had known immediately that Jimmy was dead and his penchant for reckless riding was at fault. Perhaps it was her age, the precocious youthful time where not much is denied, she had never questioned her dreams could foresee the future.
By Arwyn Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
Photographer
The door bell rings, a quick and punfunctory sound. Addison isn’t used to the crispness yet, her old apartment a decrepit Victorian with a buzzer that sounded like an unholy gospel through the halls whenever someone had the misfortune of pressing it. She gets up off the floor, leaving the box of books half unpacked and trots to the door. The tile is cold when her feet leave the carpet and is a brief relief from the unrelenting heat. A vague hope her fans are in the next bin she unloads but, until then, opening all her windows will have to do. She peers through the peep hole and sees a plain package sitting on the welcome mat.
By Arwyn Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
Numididae
There’s a golden glow when the girl awakes, the spread of iridescence as the sun rises in the early morning. Her hands chill as she pulls the slice of chocolate cake out of the fridge box, the swirls of frosting peaked at glistening on top. When she bought it it had smelled rich like cocoa but it has chilled to a dead cold scent of refrigerator. She hunts through the large drawer by the sink and finds a fork with a heavy handle, reminds her of her grandmother’s good silver but she’s pretty sure that was sold a long time ago. The farm house belonged to the old woman originally and the girl was the only one interested in upkeep it when she passed. Her siblings had trawled the entire house, crawling through for any scrap of value and leaving her with a wooden shell. It was an overwhelming task initially but she started with a floral wall paper in the main room and continued building it back into a liveable state and now her only complaint is the draft that creeps in on cooler mornings.
By Arwyn Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
In/just/
Shep wakes up one morning and the world has ended. Not some personal life altering event that shattered his world--the whole world has legitimately ended. His mother isn’t there like she normally is to make him breakfast so he grabbed his teddy bear and set about to do it himself. He drops his milk, spilling it across the floor like a pale tsunami rolling into the corners by the dishwasher and pooling beneath the sink. He decides to eat his cereal dry (which his mother never let him do--but she wasn’t there now was she?), proceeds to play in the spilt milk because it looked like fun and no one was around to tell him not to. With every splish against his palm he expected his mother to pop around the corner and scold him but she did not, the house still and empty in the morning hours.
By Arwyn Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
