Davia Buchacher
Bio
I was raised in an ever-growing town in southwest Montana. My heart belongs to this town, Bozeman, my dog, Poppy, and the feeling of furiously writing in a G2 0.38 pen on paper, time flying by as I tell a story. Instagram is @freelikeasong
Stories (8/0)
The Terrible Fog
I remember lying on the living room floor on my side, the worn, smooth wooden planks pressing into my cheek. I felt heavy, leaden, and each breath was a struggle – like my chest was sandwiched between two brick walls. My arms limp in front of me, my legs curled up to my stomach, I was simply staring at myself in the mirror we had nailed horizontally on the wall to make the room seem bigger.
By Davia Buchacher2 years ago in Psyche
Poppy
I walked into a teeny-tiny, run-down animal shelter without a clue that I would walk out with my soulmate. Piles of papers and files stacked on the shelves behind the front desk, more files and papers piled high on the desk, a small bench in one corner, and peeling linoleum flooring greeted me as I ventured in. The older woman behind the desk greeted me and asked what I was looking for. I paused and asked if I could just take a look around. She waved me on. I wandered around the small square building, three rooms full of cats just… out, being cats, a couple rooms with puppies, then I wandered outside and walked a bit around the yard, finding some dogs in outdoor kennels.
By Davia Buchacher3 years ago in Petlife
Sometimes, She's a Goose
After all the effort I had poured into the three-year relationship, after all I had sacrificed, leaving my home, my family, my friends, and moving to a big, strange city, I finally decided to leave, walking away from the two dogs we had adopted together.
By Davia Buchacher3 years ago in Petlife
Wiley House
Two walls were shelves, full of books. A giant fireplace enunciated the third wall, a plush purple-ish chair covered in dust facing the ashes. An enormous window on the last wall stood guard over a desk, bathing it in blue moonlight. A single, small book sat in the center of the otherwise empty desk, a thick layer of dust blanketing the cover. I sat in the creaky wooden chair in front of the desk and took a breath to blow on the book. Coughing through the flying dust, I opened the black leather cover. A small slip of paper fell out, a warning scrawled in fading ink:
By Davia Buchacher3 years ago in Horror
