Leigh Ann Tuttle
Bio
An aspiring writer waiting for the right story.
Stories (7/0)
Count to Three
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Abigail stared at the words followed by a taunting blink of the cursor on her laptop screen. It had been five years since her therapist had told her to try writing her nightmares down. Never one to do something without purpose she turned those raving scribbles into novels and much to her surprise they had been successful. The monsters that had haunted her nights had now become her livelihood.
By Leigh Ann Tuttleabout a month ago in Horror
The Coloring Book
My dad is a rowdy teenager in a middle aged man’s body. I’m not joking. He likes to party with his friends, chain smoke, rides a Harley and lives in screen prints and tennis shoes. He only dresses up for weddings and funerals, that is, if you call darker jeans and a button up shirt dressing up, and has in more than one stage of his life proudly sported a mullet. There’s no filter in his brain and he’ll say things that will embarrass everyone in hearing range. As a storyteller and entertainer by his very nature he’ll tell you the same story over and over again. I can guarantee you’ll laugh every time.
By Leigh Ann Tuttleabout a month ago in Confessions
The Late Visit
Grass makes me itch. Not just a little twinge here and there, satiated by a light scratch of the nails. No, I’m talking red welts and hives. The kind of itch that makes you wish you could just remove your skin. But I’m sitting here anyway, in the bright green hive inducing grass, wishing I had worn jeans, because I needed to see her. The afternoon sun is high above us, not a cloud in the sky, radiating such heat that I can barely breath. The sweet smell of roses tickles my nose and I rest my finger under it, holding back a sneeze. It almost hurts -- holding back a sneeze -- but there are more important things to discuss.
By Leigh Ann Tuttle8 months ago in Fiction
The Meeting Place
The smell of fresh hay still reminds me of summer. Whenever I drive past a field I roll down my window and take in the scent, longing for those days of my youth. It had been years since I had visited the family farm, where I'd spent my summers when I was a kid. Now it was nothing more than a plot of overgrown land. The barn had long since held fresh hay and reeked of rot and mildew. The bright red color had turned a dark brown in the areas that still had paint. The large door hung off it’s rusted hinges leaving a gaping hole that was sucking me in, inviting me to walk through my faded memories. I wondered if it was waiting for him too.
By Leigh Ann Tuttleabout a year ago in Fiction
A Demon's Day
“Please! It was my mother’s! It’s all I have left!” The screams, that were once like music to my ears, now grated nerves I didn’t know I had. I used to enjoy the feeling of bones cracking beneath the heel of my shoe, much like how I was crushing the young woman’s hand now. Blood poured from the opening my stiletto had made and swirled in dry red dirt. It should have been exhilarating. Should have.
By Leigh Ann Tuttleabout a year ago in Horror
