Lucy Richardson
Bio
I'm a new writer who enjoys fiction writing, personal narratives, and occasionally political deep dives. Help support my work and remember, you can't be neutral on a moving train.
https://twitter.com/penname_42
Stories (48/0)
Snowstorm
Delilah ran her hand across the Boy’s temple. He was still sleeping curled up in the snow. The sky was gray outside the empty cave and her stomach was just as void. She was unsure of how long they had been traveling together. The days and months bled together and dried into the cold gray swirl. Time seemed to stop when the storm hit and there was no more Gregorian, Julian, or any other calendar to speak of. She continued running her hands across the Boy’s head, worried the furs on her arm would brush across his face and wake him. Delilah knew that eventually, they would have to continue moving south. She would kiss his forehead and he would smile back at her, that warm little smile that can thaw a mother’s heart. But for now, she merely propped herself up on one elbow and looked out the cave walls preoccupied with images of monsters and death around the corner.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in Fiction
9/11: How Long Scars Can Hurt
Warning: This piece discusses the traumatic events of September 11th 2001 from the perspective of someone who did not live through the trauma but recounts many images and events from the period. If you are sensitive to this material proceed with caution or not read at all. Take care.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in The Swamp
Let's Chat about Novels.
Hey Vocal fam, let's chat about long-form content. More specifically, let's talk about novel writing. This discussion is primarily for those who (like myself) are in the process of writing their own novel and need to hear someone vent about it without the looming pressure of a "How to get over burnout and be more productiveTM" theme. I am not here to offer incredible advice, I am here to complain and rejoice in the agony and ecstasy of writing a novel.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in Journal
Watching the SLP.
When most people think of a classroom substitute they think of a substitute teacher. Likely a college student trying to make ends meet who babysits some kids doing a premade assignment until the bell rings. That isn't exactly what substitutes do, they certainly do more, however this isn't my job title. I'm a substitute paraprofessional, also called a substitute teacher's aide and I work almost exclusively in special needs classrooms helping teachers and students.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in Journal
Apple of Her Eye
Melissa enjoyed sitting below her apple tree. It wasn't really her tree, but she had sat below it for nearly a year. Each day after her mother's classes ended she'd grab her notebook and her walkman on her way to sweat through the afternoon. And each day around 5:30 as the sun weaved through the branches an older girl would ride by on a white bicycle and wave hello as she continued on her way home.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in Fiction
An All Too Familiar Fire.
He burns alive on a frozen lake. As snow-covered mountains with their jagged peaks tear apart the sky and a woman reaches out to him from the far shore. She stares at his form in the fire, a man barely balanced on melting ice with death approaching, he should be running, he should be panicking, but he just stares sadly at his hands.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in Psyche
- Top Story - July 2021
Waffle House - Immune System of the SouthEast U.S.Top Story - July 2021
I knew it was all going to hell when Waffle House closed down for more than three days. Waffle House is a staple of trucker diets, road trips, drunk expenditures, stoned experiments, and this-is-the-only-viable-option-out-here-besides-McDonalds, meals. It's hard to drive a significant distance across the Southeast without passing by at least three of those suckers. From Charleston to Savannah, Mobile to Richmond, and even some in the northeast if you can believe it.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in Feast
Punished & Planted
June 18th, 2051. Santa Fe was green again. It wasn’t the stale suburban paradise of her childhood. Back then, families of four drove past beige strip malls, stucco houses, and medical offices, and couldn’t see the stars past the city lights. Now, desert brush cracked open cement roadways, and asphalt buckled over the roots of tall trees. Pristine HOA-approved lawns, unweeded for years, grew waist-high. Poison ivy twisted and curved around building corners, carefully threading through broken windows. And Mexican flame vine, with its vermilion leaves and violent orange blooms, crept over garden walls. From certain angles, she couldn’t see a single piece of manmade construction; only an unbroken landscape of plants and trees.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in Fiction
Breadcrumbs for Girlhood.
Sometimes, it is the quiet stories that speak the loudest. Perhaps that's why I never fell in love with the Harry Potter series like so many others. I had no trouble suspending my disbelief for magic and mystery, but few characters from the series stuck with me. They were either too awkward, too talented, too proud, too evil, or too good. Moments that were meant to resonate with children coming-of-age always seemed to miss the mark. Every single character 'fit,' even if they made a blunder or were an outsider, they all belonged on the chessboard, with their unique moves.
By Lucy Richardson3 years ago in Humans