Emily N Anderson
Bio
Emily grapples with mortality, mediocrity and ordinary madness through her fiction. Every word is fueled by coffee and existential panic.
Stories (4/0)
Watchers
The men in black suits are outside again. One leans against the knotted trunk of an old oak tree. He wears his hair cropped short-- the sort of sandy color that never seems to stick in anyone’s memory. The other sits on the curb-- his knees folded in an awkwardly acute angle and his forehead contorted with wrinkles. Sweat glistens at the tips of their noses. The spring air seems stifling without a cool breeze to stir it.
By Emily N Anderson2 years ago in Fiction
Dirty Sidewalks
The people here wear tired looking faces and expensive looking shoes. Coffee fuels them as they careen down the interstate and slide into boardrooms and answer phone calls. Their cheeks and breasts and foreheads and asses will remain long after the rest of them has decayed-- plastic bulbs wedged in a deteriorated skeleton as the sun swallows the earth whole. They feed their bodies plastic but never lactose. They warp their bodies into birds of paradise and then warp their cars around a downtown lamp post.
By Emily N Anderson2 years ago in Wander
