Darby S. Fisher
Bio
Darby S. Fisher is an author from the southern United States. She has two self-published books, Skeletons: Book One and Skeletons: Book Two. Her daydreams include publishing her own collection of novels, short stories, and poetry.
Achievements (1)
Stories (7/0)
- Runner-Up in The Runaway Train Challenge
Last Stages of Editing
Normally, I don't stay up late. By 10:00pm my phone screen is black and I've given into the first wave of melatonin. I do most of my writing during the day, under the eye-straining light of my office at work. I read over the first draft, drawing small triangles, hearts, and squares between sentences in my efforts to cleanly refer to little edits I've put in the footnotes of the paper. I read over the filled pages of my journal or printer paper and smile. Sentences build into paragraphs. Paragraphs become chapters. Chapters form a rough skeleton of a hopeful novel. I'm excited. It already has a title. I'm certain that it's my best work yet.
By Darby S. Fisher2 months ago in Confessions
The Pinewood Lich
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The soft orange flame licked away at the cobwebs and dust, growing by the moment. It rose up, tall and strong, until it reached the edge of the moth-eaten curtain.
By Darby S. Fisher2 months ago in Fiction
Angelica's Dragon
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. I didn’t always sleep under the stars. The day they came started the same as any other. I rose early in the morning and got ready for the long day ahead. The cows needed milking, the chickens’ feed had to be laid, and their eggs collected into the old wire basket of my mother’s mother. I was out the door as the first early rays of summer stretched over the horizon like stray hairs brushed by the breeze.
By Darby S. Fisher3 months ago in Fiction
The Pastor's Mountain Pass
I met a man at the foot of a mountain. His face was obscured by dark glasses, a colorful, knitted hat, and a scarf made of the same material. Only his flat, dark nose and the beginnings of his white scruff were left to the open air. He asked me which way I was going, “down to the valley or up the mountain through the pass?” His voice was dark, smooth, and bitter like blackstrap molasses.
By Darby S. Fisher9 months ago in Horror
