Bianca Pole
Stories (4/0)
Unfamiliar
Clementine watched eagerly as her mother placed more logs onto the growing pile for the evening’s bonfire. Tonight, will be the night, she just knew it. For as long as anyone could remember, witches and warlocks on their sixth year of celebrating Beltane, receive the gift of their Familiar from the forest. This year was Clementine’s turn.
By Bianca Pole2 years ago in Fiction
R.A.M.
Desmond Adley was a decrepit gentleman of eighty-seven with a mind as unyielding as iron. He sat in his wicker chair in the corner of the ‘Daily Grind Cafe and Espresso Bar’ speaking in his unexpectedly loud and authoritative voice to any soul unfortunate enough to make eye contact. Surrounding Mr. Adley, the air filled with the heart-thawing smell of coffee and pastry, as if the very walls of the building were filter paper, diffusing the aroma for the entire block to enjoy. Behind the counter the baristas busied themselves, clanking and steaming, adding to the morning’s music. Meekly, the waitress approached the senior Adley with a sense of foreboding dread that appears only before a knowingly long and difficult customer interaction. The mousey girl straightened her glasses and pasted on her best toothpaste-commercial smile, feeling the muscles start to ache in weak protest. ‘So clean you can feel it!’ her mind poked through her a numb haze.
By Bianca Pole3 years ago in Fiction
The Fox Hunter
Every night, at exactly ten o’clock her consultation with the moon began. Without fail. At exactly ten o’clock, her face was illuminated with a glowing satin, as the shafts of moonlight extended their fingers from the cracks in her blinds. Slowly, they traced across her like a mournful searchlight, before disappearing again and again. Night after night.
By Bianca Pole3 years ago in Fiction
Carnivale
The words had never meant much to her - they were simple, comfortable nouns. The context behind the conversation escaped her but Emma believed the words had been dipped in deprecation, alongside an accusation of childishness. ‘Ferris Wheel’, however, was the bone that lodged itself in her throat and wrapped her tongue tightly like a red ball of yarn. The delicate ‘r’s’ sank into a throaty ocean of gurgles, where the rest of the letters hung, connected in an incoherent string.
By Bianca Pole3 years ago in Fiction