Henry Sheperd
Bio
Born and raised here in the Bay Area. 30. Artist. Cat Daddy. Button King.
Stories (11/0)
The Hills Stretch For Miles
I'd like to be made into oblivion. But that's the kind of thing he would hate. It wasn't something I wanted to be known. Valerie motioned to herself, letting layers of fabric drop away like astroids melting into the sky. It had an almost dreamlike quality to it, careful to signal each movement from an internal clock. It wasn't horrid but I can't stand to look for another moment. I grab her hand to make her stop. I want her to stop.
By Henry Sheperdabout a year ago in Fiction
My Life as an Alcoholic: Entry 2
As I mentioned in my previous publication, I plan to release excerpts from the sobriety journal I kept when I was seeking treatment for my debilitating alcoholism just two short years ago in 2016. I'm proudly two years and six months sober and continue to maintain my lifestyle and learn more and more about myself in fascinating and at times mundane ways. Here is entry number two in my journey.
By Henry Sheperd5 years ago in Psyche
My Life as an Alcoholic: Entry 1
I've decided to share my very personal struggle with alcoholism and type out excerpts from my sobriety journal for the first time. This will be a multiple-entry project, and is intended in no way, shape or form to glorify a very real and DEADLY affliction that, unfortunately, afflicts millions of lives on a daily basis. I'm hoping maybe my story will act as a stepping stone for a much bigger conversation for any fellow alcoholics out there. You are not alone in your struggles. I'm two years and six months sober and have moments where I question my will and strength. But I choose to not drink every single day because I know even one sip will send me right back to where I was before, and that thought frightens me more than anything else. This is my story. My name is Henry. I'm 26 years old and am a recovering alcoholic.
By Henry Sheperd5 years ago in Psyche
Beating Transgressions
1. Jennifer was late for the party. She fumbled to find her car keys in the mess that was her overnight bag. It was filled with used tissues and empty vodka bottles bought from the cheap liquor store around the corner, she was drunk and it was time to leave.
By Henry Sheperd5 years ago in Horror
Christie's Story
8. She sits upright in bed. Beaded in sweat from her clear formed brow to her twat. She had a nightmare and she knew why. She looks over to her right, and there he is, the reason she's been losing sleep. The reason she's lost so much sanity in recent months. Christie almost couldn't believe it. How could she have lost all her power? Before, douche bags by the dozen would line up with their little pricks in their hands waiting for their chance at something marvelous, something bigger than their miserable fucking lives. She exclaims in silence. How could she forget?
By Henry Sheperd5 years ago in Horror
Misguided Attempts at Conversation
I hate that I gave so many parts of myself away like they were cheap knock off jewelry to all the wrong person who didn't deserve to see me so exposed and vulnerable. I hate having been told "I love you" so many times by people that wanted nothing more than my shadow to keep them company for a night or two. I hate that I said "I love you back" for fear of being forgotten like the crumbling embers of a fire that didn't quite burn as brightly as it could have. I feel hollow inside and the skin you see and touch and feel is that of an imposter I fear you may soon find out I'm not who I say I am. I fear you will see that behind my frailing limbs and panicked lips there is no substance, there is no soul. I'm afraid of being alive and I'm afraid of dying young and being forgotten. Then I will have become a shadow. The passing moments that trickle down walls and slide into cracks as the sun goes down. I fear that I may never be loved.
By Henry Sheperd6 years ago in Poets