Hi! I'm a twenty-five year author/writer trying to make a name for myself out here in the literary world. Your readership and support means a lot :)
If walls could talk, you'd never know my name. Looking back, I'd prefer it that way. They say history is limited by its storyteller. And that may be true. My worldview only extends to the far side of 10th street. Here I was born, built, burnt, and ruined into the Ford you know me as today. By the curated fate of man, I am forced to exist indefinitely.
| Cargo | Repulsion poured over my reality in thick, fluid layers of purple. Hazed in red hues, my eyelids fluttered to see a steel-framed window arching above me holding smudged frames of dancing bluebird skies. Limp feminine fingertips rested against the bare skin that covered my ankles. A dark curl that didn't belong to me lay serendipitously under my left elbow. With strain, I lifted my neck out of dense drowsiness to see legs stretched over a hardwood floor. There were fifties of women next to me, in identical positions, comatose on the base of an old-style moving freight train. And there I was, among them. In a few clarifying moments, the walls of my throat came together until oxygen was army-crawling in and out of my lungs.
Better Off Graduated: Campfire Ghost-Story Contest
"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window." I couldn’t tell if it was the fire or the rasp in Adaline’s theatre voice that cracked dramatically over the story. High School officially ends on Friday, but with Senior Campout being today and tomorrow, nobody will even be on campus until graduation Friday night.