E. M. Otten
Bio
E. M. Otten is an accomplished self-published author with a degree in creative writing for entertainment. Author of the Shift trilogy, she writes mainly low-fantasy and supernatural fiction, but also dabbles in horror, sci-fi, and poetry.
Stories (25/0)
The Last Human Day
July 19, 1:00 am Flip West sat on the curb, under the light of a street lamp, and held a soggy bar towel over the bleeding, gaping cut near the corner of his right eye. He recognized the silhouette of the man standing in the shadows on the other side of the parking lot. The same silhouette he'd seen plenty of nights before this one, lurking in the distance, watching his every move. The same silhouette that followed him home, yet never attempted to come inside, or speak to him at all.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
The First Werewolf
Night fell upon the tiny village as a feather falls upon water. The air was silent and still, the sky a clear black canvas freckled with bright stars. A full strawberry moon cast luminous shadows beyond the trees, covering the surrounding forest in darkness.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
Crooked
I listened to the ocean waves crash against the shore, my eyes closed, inhaling the warm, salty breeze. Beyond that, I could hear nothing. No voices, no sirens, no unwanted secrets or dark thoughts. I wiggled my toes, feeling the grains of sand rub between them. And when I opened my eyes, I couldn’t help but smile.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
Crooked
The police car sped down the freeway. I swerved around cars and trucks, weaving between lanes of traffic, and pushed my mind to open up. I reached out with those invisible mental hands as far as I could, searching for anything that would lead me to Wesley, like groping around in the dark. My ability had been muted, but I found that the more I tried, the more I forced my brain to work past the blockage, the faster the numbness slipped away. Still, it was difficult to control, and I was weak. I was beginning to lose hope, to wonder if I should turn around, or call for help, when I heard Adam. I felt, just barely within my reach, that he was hurt. He was bleeding, in pain, and feeling hopeless.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
Crooked
I chewed the inside of my cheek and watched Jane glue seashells to an old wooden picture frame in the middle of my living room floor. She wore knee high socks with short shorts and a royal blue tank top that hugged her curves. Slow, quiet music floated from the stereo as a cool, gentle breeze drifted through the open balcony doors, tickling the sheer curtains and blowing the loose strands of Jane’s hair around her face. This was the most peaceful I’d felt in days since my confrontations with both Adam and Wesley. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last long.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
Crooked
Lyla Thomas was six years old when her parents tried to kill her. She was awoken in the middle of the night by the fear and hatred that swirled through her mother’s mind as she hovered above her sleeping child. Lyla’s screams woke her father, who stopped his wife just in time. He, too, was terrified by his little girl, by her uncanny ability to know things she shouldn’t know. But sitting by and letting the child be murdered was impossible for him. There had to be another way to get rid of this demon child. Lyla’s parents searched for months until they finally found Vic. He purchased Lyla from her parents for four-thousand dollars, and took her home to meet the rest of his children.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
Crooked
I woke up early, before the sun was up, and slipped silently out of bed into my robe, leaving Jane asleep as I headed for the living room. I reached under the couch for the paraphernalia I needed and stepped onto the balcony. The last thing I wanted was for the numbing effect I gained from the drugs to wear off and allow me to accidentally slip inside Jane’s mind, seeing all of her dirty little secrets while she slept.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
Crooked
On Saturday morning, I enjoyed the silence. I sipped hot coffee and thumbed through the pages of a book that I had intended to read some time ago, yet had never gotten past the prologue. I let the sliding door out to the balcony remain open, the breeze rustling the leaves of various potted plants around the space. I listened to the birds and the city sounds of hustle and bustle and enjoyed the steady quiet inside my head. Unfortunately, my blissful morning was interrupted by a knocking on the door that sent my stomach up into my throat.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
Crooked
I called the number first thing in the morning and was greeted with an automated message saying that it had been disconnected. My morning continued as usual, however sloppily due to my post-martini condition. I’d overslept, and yet I hadn’t slept at all. My head pounded, echoing with the last words I’d heard Wesley speak all those years ago.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
