Bex Jordan
Bio
She/They. Writer. Gardener. Cat-Lover. Nerd. Always looking up at the sky or down at the ground.
Profile photo by Román Anaya (https://www.roman-anaya.com/).
Instagram: @UmaSabirah
Achievements (1)
Stories (31/0)
Monsters of Elishire
Moonlight rippled unnaturally on the lake as the car rounded the curve to the final stretch of dirt road before we reached the township of Elishire. I appreciated the ride–I knew I would have gotten lost in these twisting country backroads. I already longed for the lights and traffic and pavement of my city.
By Bex Jordan3 months ago in Horror
The Knight's Error
Hazel slashed her borrowed sword through the spiny, overgrown vines, creating a jagged path to the crumbling castle. She was grateful for her secondhand armor–she could hear the thorns scraping angrily against the metal, longing to tear her flesh but unable to gain purchase. She wondered how many knights had failed simply because they could move no further without a steed (surely, no horse would endure the torture of a thousand tangled scratches) or blinded by forgetting to secure the visor of their helmet. Hazel’s visor may have been twisted in spots and rusting in others, but she had ensured it would hold against the terrors of the vines. She was thankful for the months of studying she’d ensured prior to her quest. She’d snuck into her father’s shop to repair her brother's weathered armor as best she could, and she appreciated her efforts had not been in vain.
By Bex Jordan3 months ago in Pride
Run
My weary gray eyes dart from one dull wall to the next. The same four walls I had been staring at for the past six months. Or, at least, it feels like six months. It's hard to keep track of time when you have no calendar, no company, and aren't allowed anywhere except a dreary metal room. My eyes fall on the silver toilet in the far left corner of the room, sitting next to a simple sink. The only other piece of furniture in the room is the uncomfortable, thinly-mattressed cot I sit upon. The only change in the walls is the large metal door on the right side of where I sit. The door is always locked, except when 'they' open the smaller, doggie-door sized passage at the bottom to push 'food' and water through for me. I use the term 'food' loosely–it usually consists of bread and a few pieces of unidentifiable vegetables. When I'm really lucky, the bread is not covered in mold and the veggies are not rotten. My elaborate meal comes to me twice a day. Sometimes it might be three times, but I also might be dreaming that third time up. Of course, whoever dreams of that slop must be insane, or at least getting there. Which I'm sure I probably am.
By Bex Jordan5 months ago in Fiction
