K. Kocheryan
Bio
I write, delete, write, and on most days, delete again.
Achievements (1)
Stories (37/0)
Wounds
Do I climb, Chiron? to heal my old, open wounds the Mount calls often
By K. Kocheryanabout a year ago in Poets
A Dragon's Theft
The unnamed forest, inhabited by many hidden creatures and creations, usually practiced silence. It was purposeful, as silence came with many advantages for predator and prey, but it was also not, as silence usually came over ones that felt they had no reason to be present. Today, though, as the sun’s rays tried to reach through the treetops, tried to lighten more of the forest than just the dark dim it usually held, something disrupted that silence. It wasn’t a noise that caused it. No, it was space being taken, occupied. Something entered and did not leave, which was louder than the soft, slow footsteps that entered.
By K. Kocheryan2 years ago in Fiction
31 Days of October Writing Prompts
October is right around the corner, and what better month to inspire creativity and story? For this year, I decided to create daily writing prompts for the month for inspiration to exercise the writing brain. To have fun with putting down whatever comes through the pen—or if a sudden urge comes along, a paintbrush.
By K. Kocheryan2 years ago in Fiction
She falls and pours
For however long it lasts and speaks—changing, slowing, and growing. Whispering with scent. It encloses the small part of the reality owned and, in a way, transforms or transports on solid foundation, stilling or shaking depending on what it’s made of.
By K. Kocheryan2 years ago in Poets
Spaceships and Ice Cream
The mission was supposed to be simple. But things happened—unforeseen consequences spoken into existence. Now the Space Rangers just needed to get the spaceship out of the alien’s targeting system. There are buttons to press. Orders to yell. Dramatic balancing acts to display as the ship flies erratically through an uncharted location in space.
By K. Kocheryan2 years ago in Fiction
A ____ in the Oven
Leila stared at the white ceiling as her nightmare slipped into oblivion, with only its echoes lasting, echoes of a scream. She turned in her bed and grabbed her phone on the nightstand. 3:07 AM. Grunting, she put the phone down, closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath. But she paused before exhaling because of a strange scent that shouldn’t be present, especially in the middle of the night.
By K. Kocheryan3 years ago in Fiction