Francis Curt O'Neill
Bio
Writer and artist based in the north of England, passionate about all forms of storytelling.
@curtoneill on most socials
Stories (20/0)
Hello, I'd Like To Report A Murder
Marlow had seen enough crime scenes to know this one was monstrously different. “You ate at all today?” He shook his head, knowing full well a quick gulp of last night’s red as he left the house didn’t count. “Good. It’s a mess. Barely enough pieces for an ID…”
By Francis Curt O'Neill2 years ago in Fiction
Moorehead's Maiden
-this ashen mire is home to many a dead man, litany of littered corpses, forgotten by all in a most willful warning, this land forbidden by any who hold their life dear. Hovering atop blankets of mist, waiting within the soft fog billows, its beating heartbeat pulse, the Maiden. Bone pure from flesh, she waits for you, only you, looses calls with such longing you are compelled to follow in her wake, its blessed procession, led by blanched bone. A holy march of death. To her, the thinnest wisps of lace still cling, this moon summoned wraith a forever bride, dressed in spun webs caught in twilight’s glow, as deadly a trap as ever constructed. Across this wretched land her guttural scream is carried, shrill as if upon bat wing, the call of your name only, and any life it may lay claim to… |
By Francis Curt O'Neill2 years ago in Fiction
They’re Just Words
“It’s lacking.” “…Well, what exactly?” Harold struggles with the dead weight of his dear friend’s words. “Hard to say. Just is.” Carver thumbs a well worn red pen, tapping it against his veneers “You know, the general sense of the thing…”
By Francis Curt O'Neill2 years ago in Fiction
Night Night, Sleep Tight, Blue Light
Sleep. No. More than that. A good night's sleep. Seemingly elusive, right? I mean you've heard about it, surely, you're always awake so it's not like you've got an excuse. But that's all anyone really does, hear about it... Resting in some fabled haze, the stuff of literal bed time stories. A Holy Grail for our modern times.
By Francis Curt O'Neill2 years ago in Lifehack
DEAD SONG
I "Consider your movements. The thread. It is delicate." "I shall, mother." I place the cloth over his eyes. Wrought lattice woven into the silk, an overlay of spindle silver pushed deep into midnight blue. Features fall away. I am forced to wonder if memory will be a mercy, or a most particular misery.
By Francis Curt O'Neill2 years ago in Fiction
A life: On Credit
Credit Transfer Denied ACCOUNT SUSPENDED Please contact your local branch for reinstatement. Have an excellent day. No no no! DAMMIT! I slam my fist against the touch screen. Gold grin leprechaun dances back and forth, pixelated through thick grime.
By Francis Curt O'Neill2 years ago in Futurism
Count Me Amongst The Stars
Have you even seen the stars dance? Glow from the aftershift, as they careen through the sky with such wonder, impossible ghost images burnt into cosmos and retina alike. Alive even. So damn alive despite everything. White hot rage exploding in pieces of light, fragmented across an infinite dark, daring to rebel. Thrashing, a final defiance before being swallowed whole.
By Francis Curt O'Neill3 years ago in Fiction
