issabella maitland
Bio
Writing has always been a direct pipeline from my heart to my fingertips, I use fiction to help navigate a confusing and often painful world. Writing stories reminds me of hope and to share that hope with others is all I want.
Stories (5/0)
A Hundred Years
“One foot in front of the other,” Nelly muttered to herself. She had walked this hallway billions of times in her life. Over the years she had grown acquainted with every monster, every shadow, every flickering movement in the corner of her eye, but tonight it felt unfamiliar. This unknown presence was new and unwelcome.
By issabella maitland2 years ago in Fiction
Memory
You’re sitting on your bed; the cold night air comes in through the window along with the moths searching for light and warmth. The cool draft curls around your feet. Your pen scratches against the soft paper of your diary as the words spiral out in black ink, manic feelings of desperation and loneliness fill the empty pages. It feels like no one in the world has ever felt this alone, and there is no escape.
By issabella maitland2 years ago in Fiction
Roller Skates
I have roller skates sitting in a dusty corner of my room. They sit there nightly, daily, waiting to be used. The day is yet to come where I fly down a promenade parallel to a beach at sunset. When I got them that was the image in my mind, like the videos I had seen. I was definitely not in England, probably Los Angeles or somewhere warm. When the skates actually came in their cardboard box and I opened it up to reveal the bright pink and yellow fabric, I saw how grey everything around them looked. Maybe that was the start of reality sinking in.
By issabella maitland2 years ago in Journal
Dust and the Galaxy
Dust covers everything in the small room at the back of the house. It has made a home in this room. All across the floor, along the windowsills, in the dark corners where the eyes can’t see. It is a protective layer from the darkness that the night brings. An empty room, but always occupied. A guest room where the door is always shut but never locked. The window displays the seasons of the year as they come and go. The sunrise shines into the house each morning, but not in the guest room. The moonlight makes faded shadows on the dilapidated walls. The stars sprinkle over the house, their ancient light meets the eyes of the house guests.
By issabella maitland2 years ago in Fiction
Post Apocalypse
I’ve escaped my room to roam under the rich blue sky. Just like me, everyone in the city has fled to the lake whilst the sun is still out. I feel like shouting ‘spring is here!’ because I am just so overjoyed that it decided to come along after all. It arrived out of nowhere, which I think I notice every single year and yet still somehow stay amazed by it every time the new season rolls around. Well, it’s different this year anyway.
By issabella maitland2 years ago in Journal