Jessie Wylder
Bio
Writing has been my safe place, my antidote to grief, my love language, my psychonaut trips.
I'll give you what we all need; a hand, a shoulder, an empty page to sign your existence.
Stories (12/0)
Sanctuary
Sometimes I contemplate the old times. I was writing a lot under brass oil lamps and a pen between smudged fingers. Fingers that played all kinds of dirt with charm. No penny for bread if it wasn't for that. Despite the pen and the muse, the male pen name, the publishing on print and poetic collections for the brandies and soirees, the same gentlemen would pay more for the flesh than for the spirit. I'm not making a fool of myself. I had chosen this life with pride. I enjoyed it even. You see, you're not seductive. You're the very lust itself. The type of lust that everyone desires but can't possess. The cheap and ephemeral. The truest of kinds. Then I'd feel the dirt all over me. I'd smell the stench on my skin. I'd scratch it off for hours with green soap, I'd wash the hair in distilled nectar, I'd spread on the neck and wrist aromas picked from spice markets of the East, potions and elixirs and herbs, I'd sip the absinthe and exhale the roasted tobacco. Nothing. The magic would disappear. It was only the curses that stayed. Because the stench had soaked and rooted in the inside, emanating. Poison brew simmering in the cauldron and the fumes intoxicating.
By Jessie Wylder2 years ago in Poets
Venus in traps
'The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. A halo of faint brightness that cast its rays behind the sultry glass disrupted the haze. From a distance, indistinct voices were heard. Echoing closer and closer.
By Jessie Wylder2 years ago in Fiction
