Esmoore Shurpit
Bio
I like writing bad stories.
Achievements (1)
Stories (37/0)
existential
effervescent highs delicately plateau to a lonesome summit
By Esmoore Shurpitabout a year ago in Poets
My First Gray Hair
Sometimes I forget that I’m 28. My 28th birthday came and went. I made a birthday cake I didn’t even eat the day of. Inside my head 27 is still there. Maybe I’m trying to hang onto these years the closer to 30 I’m getting. Though I’m not afraid of the big 3-0. I’ve seen my husband turn 30 without a panic after all, and 30s are still young.
By Esmoore Shurpit2 years ago in Viva
Ultraviolet Viridian: Interlude
I. It was the rhythmic sound of hot rolled steel upon steel tracks that filled the air. The click-clacking of wheels a lullaby of Earth’s past. It was a sound no longer heard except in period films and dramas, reminiscent of the late twentieth and early twenty-first century. The raw sound of vibrations and rail squeals had been replaced with quiet electric hyperlink trains that expelled shrill futuristic pedestrian warning tones at certain speeds and crossings. Yet the distinct sound of the past filled his ears and the emptiness of the dark void around him.
By Esmoore Shurpit2 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - May 2022
Contemporary Afternoon TeaTop Story - May 2022
Dear mom, 2018 Afternoon Tea at Lady Bedford's in 2018. Picture by author We attend Afternoon Tea at Lady Bedford’s Tea Parlour as part of our mother-daughter outings. You were nervously suspended in a world of dainty china in a shop that held an air of aristocracy. We melted right in with the hosts’ explanation of the menu and selection of loose leaf teas. Our fingers nabbed soft scones slathered with clotted cream off the three-tiered tray that held sides of strawberry jam and tart lemon curd. We ate crunchy tempura shrimp and a variety of finger sandwiches and miniature confections. It all was topped off with sugar cubes twirled in cups of fragrant warm tea.
By Esmoore Shurpit2 years ago in Confessions
Within the Sound of Silence
Silence. I never really understood why it made people so uncomfortable. Their fingers itched to fill the void after seconds or minutes as if afraid to face the quiet that surrounded them. Oftentimes, they thoughtlessly put on music or turned on the TV to fill the quiet. Though the silence of a room itself wasn’t merely empty if they only listened and became one with the atmosphere. Usually, there was a faint hum of electronic appliances in the background, the sound of traffic filtering in through the windows, or the drone of heating or cooling systems, and the faint subtle pops and creaks of a house shifting in its foundation.
By Esmoore Shurpit2 years ago in Fiction