Elsa Fleurel
Bio
veterinary technician and freelance writer
🌧 penchant for horror, thriller and criminal psychology 🌧
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Stories (19/0)
Surface Level
When I came home and opened the front door, the smell of old diapers and microwaved zucchini mush instantly made me gag. I pressed a finger to my nostrils, kicking a rubber ducky out of my way with an angry squeak before taking my high heels off and poking my head in the living room arch.
By Elsa Fleurel3 years ago in Fiction
Something's Wrong With Mallory
She was eating her own birthday cake when I killed her. It's the first thing that enters my mind as I watch Dr. Rathburn slide a paper plate over to my side of the table. The slice of cake is identical to the one I've previously described—double chocolate, triple layered, and topped with rainbow sprinkles. It stares at me like it has eyes, like it's meant to bring out my deepest, ugliest secrets.
By Elsa Fleurel3 years ago in Fiction
Blink once for yes
August 16th, 1991 The first time I laid eyes on her, I thought I was dreaming. It was a regular summer day. The sun was beaming down hard enough to get me panting like our old golden retriever, so I swiped an orange-flavored popsicle from the freezer and skedaddled to the woods before mum could grab me by the ear and force me to clean up my room. In the forest, I jumped from tree stump to tree stump, using the popsicle stick as a makeshift weapon to swing around in the air.
By Elsa Fleurel3 years ago in Fiction
To run with the wild horses
The first time I got on a horse, I was ready to turn around, flee the scene, and pretend nothing had ever happened. Willingly stepping out of your comfort zone can be challenging for many of us, so for my twelve-year-old, introverted self, you can imagine it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows.
By Elsa Fleurel3 years ago in Petlife
Polycarbonate
SECURE YOUR FUTURE—REGISTER TO THE BIOSOCIETY TODAY I stare at the poster, nailed to a decrepit wall of some back alley where practically no one passes by, and read the words slowly. I know it's a waste of time—the slogan long ago embedded its claws into my back and sunk its teeth in my neck—and will, at best, bring me nothing more than an opportunity to test my patience. For some masochistic reason, I still read it as though it's the very first time.
By Elsa Fleurel3 years ago in Fiction