prose, short stories, and occasional poetry of the mystery, crime, and psychological horror variety
If walls could talk, maybe she could have been saved. As it was, the house burned with her. The child came into the world screaming, as most children do. But later the wall would note that she screamed far more than her sister did, when she was born. It was an old house, and sound carried well, so the walls heard everything.
Written for the Improbable Paradise challenge, where an unlikely pair meets on a tropical island. Ellery Clarke pushes up her sunglasses and squints out at the fluorescent-blue sea. Her bathing suit is sticking to her back, a mixture of saltwater and sweat making her feel overall rather grimy. When she had decided to take her annual leave in Curacao after listening to Beth rave about the beaches there for months, she had neglected to remember how much she hated being hot. Sighing, she sets her margarita down and stands up, stretching to try and rid herself of some of the uncomfortable tightness the salt left on her skin, and gathers her towel and purse from the lounge chair. She needed a shower.
an excerpt from a (currently) unfinished short story Jessie Mae hosted the Red Creek High School 15 year reunion. It was full of adults with their loud voices and strange memories and full of preteen kids who screamed too much and only wanted to play hide and seek.
Remaking History, And Myself
Most of my hobbies are not original. I started writing because my friend did it. I took self-defense classes because my friend did it. I rode horses because my friend did it. And I taught myself how to sew a full 18th-century ensemble from almost-top to almost-bottom in 2 months, only partially to spite my friend who I had just fallen out with.
This piece requires a little bit of background: My friend, who does screenwriting, wrote a script for a horror movie that we shot by ourselves in our hometown during the fall and winter of 2019, with help from recruited friends and family. The story follows two sisters who moved in with a distant relative after the death of their mother, only to discover that the house is haunted not only by the ghost of a girl named Hazel, but a much darker, ancient force that wants to destroy them. It was never finished due to COVID, but I played the main character, 17 year old Gillian Gerhardt-Woulfe, and in light of never being able to complete the project, I wrote this short story for her taking place in the aftermath of the events of the film.
The Corset Thing
The Victorian times. Gothic mansions, carriages, lavish dresses, grand balls, and sweeping romance. It was the era of the Bronte sisters (Wuthering Heights was my first-ever Victorian novel) and Dickens. Bustles and crinolines and arsenic dye and of course, corsets. The oppressive torture device that stole women’s breath and mobility, shifted their organs, and… are a 2021 fashion trend?
Is It Now Acceptable To Dress Like My Favorite TV Show Character?
I am, ashamedly, a poster-child Gen-Zer. I wear "vintage straight" jeans and a middle part... I even make Tik-Toks, for God's sake. So what business do I have saying I'm nostalgic for a time when I wasn't even born?
The Wednesday before the world stopped, Emily asked me to drive to Keene with her after school. She had had her license for six months, and was using any excuse to take advantage of her newfound freedom. It wasn’t as though either of us needed anything, but between her new car and my new job, it felt like something normal teenagers would do. We were sitting on the track field bleachers at the end of English class. It was surprisingly warm for March.