Kate Carlson
Bio
Start writing...
Stories (3/0)
Some Sort of Demon Squirrel
I swore I would never come back here. People always say that, and I had really meant it, but apparently four years, three months, and seventeen days was close enough to never. I squished the wet sand beneath my toes at the edge of the lake, only daring to take two steps into the diamond clear water. A bird cawed nearby and I jumped as its call pierced the calm and morphed into the sound of David's panicked last screams. I covered my ears, trying to muffle the sound, but knew it wouldn't help. I heard the same scream for the last four years, three months, and seventeen days. A breeze blew my dark hair over my face, obstructing my view, but I heard the leaves of the trees bordering the lake rustle. I flicked my hair away. No ripples marred the reflection of the blue sky on the lake's mirror surface. The leaves of the trees were deep red and vibrant yellow now, but the lake was the same.
By Kate Carlson2 years ago in Horror
Enough
I listened to the pen scratching paper, writing words I would never read. I focused instead on tapping my fingers rhythmically against the fabric of the couch. I’ve never been a patient person, and this tiny room’s stagnant air reeked of Dr. Paterson’s aftershave, which made me even less tolerant of the moments passing in silence. I stared at the little black book in his hands, surprised that the weeks of notes hadn’t filled the book yet. The notebook itself was unassuming- with a hardcover, rounded edges, and ivory pages- but its contents determined my entire future.
By Kate Carlson3 years ago in Psyche
Tea, Cereal, and a Hot Dog Cart
I pulled the frayed blanket tighter around my shoulders, cursing the combination of frigid November storms and an apartment with a broken heater. I looked at the tea that I had already forgotten and reheated three times since this morning, trying to decide if having hot tea was worth emerging from my blanket cocoon. With a heavy sigh, I braced myself and stood, my knees cracking from the change in position as I escorted my tea to the microwave once again.
By Kate Carlson3 years ago in Futurism