Jillian Spiridon
Bio
just another writer with too many cats
twitter: @jillianspiridon
Stories (325/0)
The Deep
The ocean scared Moira Hunt more than anything. Maybe it was the first nail in the coffin of her marriage when she refused to wade through the waves just off the coast of Hawaii even at her husband Dean’s insistence. Hiking and mountain-climbing she could do—gladly—but water in a great wide expanse? Give her a small heated pool any day.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Humans
A Beautiful Deception
Tara knew better than to walk past the swamplands near dusk, but the bitchy girls at Henrietta High had scattered the contents of her gym bag into the waiting marshes. As she stepped across moss and wet spots, she could see her favorite ballet flats sinking into the murky water. And, hell, the clothes probably wouldn’t even be salvageable.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Horror
When the Woods Call Her Name
There are predators in the woods—skulking, baying, and clawing through the frozen soil. It’s the time of year when we barely leave our hovel outside Boundary Wood, the last true refuge for uncharmed mortals who do not want to pay tribute to the Winterking’s court.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Futurism
The Golden Years
The photograph tells a story all its own. Two kids—they really were, he at 19 and she at 18—barely had time for the camera shot as they looked into each other’s eyes, their faces aglow with something much sweeter than joy. His hand was clasped in hers as if he wouldn’t even think of letting it go one day.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Humans
Azrael's Song
Angels didn’t get sick days or paid time-off like humans did. But after the last war—it was a doozy, even by the standards of the 20th century—who could blame Azrael for needing to take a few days off for some “me time”? Michael wasn’t happy about it, but he granted the request. He couldn’t remember the last time the angel of death had done anything that didn’t involve some aspect of war, plague, or one of the many disastrous human inventions that peppered the sphere known as earth.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Futurism
Trouble Follows Her Like Smoke
Evie was staying in her third motel this month, and it was only February 10th. Her money was found to be counterfeit at the first, the second had bed bugs suddenly appear in half of their rooms and had to be closed for extermination, and the third—well, she was waiting for that shoe to drop to the concrete. So far, though, nothing had made her senses for these things perk. After being as unlucky as she had become, Evie was getting pretty good at anticipating the storm before the forecast.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Horror
The Witch Next Door
It was not a good day for a summer storm. Penelope Reed watched through the blinds of her kitchen window as movers began to unload furniture from a beat-up truck parked in the driveway next door. An unfortunate pleather sofa followed a pair of lamps and a behemoth of a secretary desk. From a rusted station wagon came a black umbrella, masking the presence of the new homeowner of 1692 Cherrywood Lane.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Humans
Drainage Problems
Jane Lowell first fell in love with the wraparound porch that could have been teleported out of a magazine for house hunters. Her husband George was less impressed, but he squeezed her shoulder encouragingly, quiet in all things—except for the eventual price tag. But Jane fought for her four-bedroom dream with its idyllic suburban glow and the promising school district that mothers everywhere would have said was a must.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Horror
The End Where We Meet
The trees start whispering one morning, like a chatter of teeth, as the National Guard trucks filter through the one-way street of Highborn Avenue. Tommy Finch watches with an unease making his stomach flutter, his breath fogging out each scant moment, and he wonders if his father has awoken from the latest blackout last night. He peels his eyes away and shakes his head before he ducks under the nearby cafe’s awning.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Futurism
Color Theory
The first splash of color was always the hardest. Roy had been a hobbyist painter for what had become his longest love affair—twenty years and counting—but every time he faced a new blank canvas, there was a shyness to the way he would first begin to dribble paint across the white face before him. It was new, it was exciting, but there was also the undercurrent of worry: would this in fact be the painting that broke him?
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Humans
Balancing Act
-Libra Starring as The Peacemaker- You remember it like a bruise, the way the tension would spike in your chest at the first hint of your mother’s anger. Her words were like cut glass, so easy to make you bleed at the wrong moments, when you were just a caterpillar struggling to free itself from its cocoon.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Psyche