Chloe Dalton
Stories (12/0)
why am I attracted to people with avoidant attachment styles
An anxious attachment style is a type of attachment that forms in childhood and is characterized by a fear of abandonment, a tendency to worry about the security of the relationship, and a need for constant reassurance and intimacy. People with an anxious attachment style often crave emotional closeness and may become anxious or insecure when they feel that their partner is distant or unresponsive. They may also have a tendency to become overly dependent on their partner and may feel a strong need for constant validation and support.
By Chloe Daltonabout a year ago in Psyche
The Correct Way to Eat an Orange: A Guide
The following is a step by step guide on how to create the most ideal conditions and arguably the only correct way to eat an orange. The finer details may be overlooked, however it is important to understand the essential principles of this guide which perfectly capture the taste of summer.
By Chloe Dalton2 years ago in Feast
Radio Show
Atop a stack of books an alarm clock begins to scream at three am. A hand pulls free from layers of quilts and cuts the sound short. They fill their lungs as full as they can and shoot up in bed swinging one leg, and then the other to dangle above the floor. Their slender arms reach above their head and they tilt their torso back and forth, their spine curving perfectly. Slowly the two feet inch closer to the floor until contact is made and they begin to move painfully slowly, dragging across hard wood to make it to the window on the other side of the room. For five minutes they gaze lovingly out the window and admire the brightness of the stars. There is no light pollution because no one is awake yet. No one wants to be awake, especially not now, not during the witching hour, people stay asleep in fear of what they might see if they are awake, in fear of what is about to happen because even people's nightmares are preferred to this. Ripping their eyes away from the void they find themselves in the bathroom standing before a figure in the mirror. What they see they don’t recognize, what they see they can't comprehend, but even so they lift their hands to their head and run their fingers through thick, long, soft hair, every fiber of hair and every nerve in their fingers coming alive. This won't do. There's too much of it this morning. They reach for an electric razor and get to work, allowing clumps and pieces to fall into the sink one at a time. Feeling their hand over their head in circles they search for pieces that are too long, for any that were too stubborn and stayed attached to their head, at the base of their neck they find the final strands, pinch them between fingers that are just too long and pull them tight to run the razor slowly over them, savoring the feeling of the hair releasing from their head. A sigh of relief falls from their lips as now they can finally move to the back yard to start the ritual. Here a shovel caked in mud is leaning against a dark green wall, taking it in their hand they walk into the middle of the dirt yard and begin to dig. Their back muscles begin to strain and ache every time they bring dirt from the ground, their fingernails chip and become sharp and jagged, the air bites their nose and every breath brings ice in their lungs, but it doesn't matter because they are almost done. When they finish digging it's a shallow grave, deep enough so they can be entirely covered, but not so deep they won't be able to later reemerge. They admire their handiwork momentarily before bringing their hands to their face and use their mangled nails to cut into their skin. Blood finds its way to the outside air and runs down their face into their eyes and filling their mouth, they push their fingers below their skin. They pinch the organ between their thumb and pointer finger and begin to pull. Muscles and tissue are exposed, nerves ignite, but despite the pain they don't scream. They pull and pull until finally they reach their feet and slowly and carefully step out of their skin suit. Leaving behind their old form they climb into the fresh grave and pull as much dirt over themselves as possible and ask the winds to cover them the rest of the way. Maggots and bacteria immediately begin to feast, it doesn't take long for them to decompose, when the creatures are finished with their meal a single rose begins to grow from the soft soil. As the flower blooms the sun begins to rise. This isn't an ordinary rose, from the center of the bud a hand is reaching for the sky, then an arm appears. Shoulder, neck, and head all emerge and limb by limb the person from the mirror climbs out of the grave.
By Chloe Dalton2 years ago in Fiction
Europa: The Origin of Taurus
I was born on the edge of the world - where the cliffs of the land and the tidal waves of the ocean are friends, where the tall grass and the white sands rustle in the same wind. It’s in this place I was free and wild with adventure. I was every bit reckless as I was brave, daring my brothers to race in the rain and dance in the starlight. While my father reigned over a kingdom, I was a princess of the stars and sea; content, initially, to simply imagine what must lie beyond the horizon. But living at the edge of the world is like standing upon a mountain and thinking “What if I jumped?” How can one begin to trust oneself to stay grounded, to not leap through the air with arms wide, believing they might fly away? I’m not a cliche yet I see how it must sound: a bored princess wishes for another life beyond the honeyed existence she suffers. With years to consider this, I realize I would have grown out of the inexplicable phase all young people encounter of curiosity and longing for the unknown. Although bold and heady, I was not and am not a person with sustained desires. It’s awful to admit that I may not be as interesting as I wish others to see me as, but in all my life the only thing I have truly longed for is home. Even when I wished to jump from that great height and soar away on albatross wings, it was only a misguided attempt to find where I already was. I believe I would have come to this conclusion with a little time, had it not been for the event - the event that would alter the course of my life forever, and forever leave me in mourning for home.
By Chloe Dalton3 years ago in Fiction
To Be Frank
Frank wakes up at 4 am to let the dog out. He boils water for tea. He prefers coffee but doesn’t like the smell. Green tea is for the morning and chamomile for the evening. Morning tea is accompanied by the New York Times crossword puzzle. He buys newspapers from the 80’s off eBay because he doesn’t like to keep up with the world. Frank knows it’s easier to live in the past.
By Chloe Dalton3 years ago in Humans
The Chocolate Cake Accountant
There are 537 calories in a slice of chocolate cake. 352 when I scrape the icing off. A calorie measures how much energy is required from the body to turn food into energy. I don’t understand physics or chemistry or whatever jurisdiction calories fall under, but I know there is a balance to maintain. Too many calories in a day over a long period, and your body will stop burning calories and instead turn them into fat. Instead of water overflowing from a glass when you pour too much water in, the glass gets larger. I don’t think that is an accurate analogy, but it made sense when my mom said it when I was 13. I remember her face as she explained moderation, a patient but concern look in her eye, and the poorly masked condescension in her tone. Of course, I understood what this science lesson was for - I’m not stupid.
By Chloe Dalton3 years ago in Longevity
It was a Proud Thing
The barn at my Uncle's house was a proud thing; the haughty beams that criss-cross along with the ceiling and the pristine white paint somehow provided the effect the massive structure was looking down on us. And I suppose it was in a way - I had never met anything that large at the age of 11 and it had never met something as small as me. I wasn’t undersized for my age - if anything, I was too gangly and tall - all elbows and knees and sharp corners. Where the barn stood in steadfast confidence, no doubt of what it was meant to be, I stood its opposite.
By Chloe Dalton3 years ago in Fiction
The Clock
The only company in the room is the metronomic tick tick tick of the clock across the room. Regardless of where I sit, I can see the red hand move at its unhurried pace around and around again. The single window provides a cold watery light, casting everything in grey, not unfamiliar to the feeling in the pit of my stomach. Beyond the dirty glass to the fields outside there’s an unnatural calm about the sway of the grass and silence of the skies. I’m reminded of a dying man taking his last breath unsure if it will be his last - wary to exhale. The birds that would swell in waves and blacken the sky with their small bodies have nestled into the trees or died. I miss the birds. It used to be the birds were my only friends, the only creatures in this place that understood me. Of course, I don’t blame them for retreating into the known when faced with an astronomical unknown. I can’t decide if it’s comforting knowing birds feel the fear too.
By Chloe Dalton3 years ago in Journal