Emily Fine
Bio
I'm a writer and psychologist from Western, MA
Stories (6/0)
Subzero
Despite being burrowed deep inside my sleeping bag, shivers rack my body. I imagine forfeiting, trekking back to base and sinking into a real bed in one of their heated trailers. But I can’t give up now, not after a month in this frigid hell. If I can endure another week, I’ll make it to the final round. Besides, I’ve survived worst. Nothing tops the evening I walked in on a woman straddling my fiancé. Thankfully, that image is a mere flash, all thoughts shrunk to fleeting pinpricks by the cold slithering deep inside me.
By Emily Fine5 months ago in Fiction
A Tough Decision
"We can't give her away," I found myself saying, eyes welling. “Maybe we can convince your parents to take her." My husband and I had never intended to adopt two, let alone one puppy during our nine months in Israel. But here we were, two adorable, rambunctious puppies chasing each other around our apartment.
By Emily Fineabout a year ago in Petlife
The Benefits of Failure
All winter I yearned for nights like these—the air thick with humidity, redolent with pine and cut grass. But stepping out of the restaurant, my senses recede behind a single sentence: “We are so proud of you Cassie." The words, meant for my sister, tumbled from my father's mouth as he raised a glass. I am seething with jealousy, then hating myself for it, a surfer betrayed by the wave he meant to ride.
By Emily Fineabout a year ago in Humans
Guilty Pleasures
In an interview with Christopher Paolini several years ago, I asked him why he is drawn to the fantasy genre. He replied, "You get to experience and go places that would otherwise be impossible. One of the things that makes us human is that we can dream, we can dream of things that never were and never can be and fantasy allows us to tap into that." *
By Emily Fineabout a year ago in Futurism
Undiminished
“Mable, my Mable” he muttered, voice raspy, palm limp in hers. He willed his eyes open, but like a door shoved by a strong wind, they inevitably slammed shut again. Then his lips quirked up ever so slightly, his eyes fixing on her one last time, red and glassy but holding a glimmer of what they always had—devotion with a hint of jest. His forehead glistened with sweat and for a moment his breath stilled. But then he tugged her arm and pulled her forward, whispering, “The floorboard. The loose one at the back of the closet. Forgive me Mable. Forgive me.”
By Emily Fineabout a year ago in Humans
