M.E. Royce
Bio
Graduated with a BA in Creative Writing with a love for YA fantasy and literary fiction. Self-published at seventeen with new creations on the way.
Stories (5/0)
Erah
Cool iron rustled a loose autumn braid. Two sandaled feet settled themselves into the scorching sand as Erah dropped into the pit. Her fists clenched around the hilts of two chipped short swords, their leather wraps rubbed smooth with use. Sweat dripped down her forehead and neck, soaking into the canvas tunic belted at her midsection. This was her prison.
By M.E. Royceabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man in the Dolia
It was all bones. He was all bones. Bones and dust and remnants of a civilization long past. Yet even after all those years, the man in the dolia still lived. In part. In spirit. He lived and wandered as an echo of tragedy. Not of war or deceit, but disaster by fire, water, and time. He hadn’t died the day when the mountain came crashing down. That was a different matter entirely.
By M.E. Royce2 years ago in Fiction
Fifth Door
The first door closed. It was a solid panel of wood with a cool metal knob and the keypad of a university dorm. Anxiety and loneliness existed in the room with a twin bed and wooden dresser. It hurt. He hurt. The space between my legs was sore, an aching I was unused to. Empty bottles and cans fell out of an unlined trashcan. Cigarette butts sat at the base of a Heineken bottle. Red marks created a necklace that framed my face. What did I do wrong? Was I enough? He said he loved me. That I was perfect. That is all I wanted to hear regardless of the tears that streaked down my cheeks.
By M.E. Royce2 years ago in Fiction
Where The Water Meets the Sea
An air conditioner whirls to life as the Italian midsummer rays touch the window of the apartment. Eyes closed, the mixture of cigarettes, espresso, and bake shops combine with gasoline with the passage of taxis and compact cars. A watch reads seven in the morning.
By M.E. Royce2 years ago in Fiction
Twice Deep Inside My Own Head
7:00 pm Shower. The grey towel hangs on the back of my dorm’s door. Flip flops are tucked in a corner along with a hodge-podge of heels and sneakers. My hands tousle the beehive of hair that sits in a heap on my head. I don’t need to shampoo and conditioner, just conditioner. Hopefully it doesn’t’ come out with a greasy sheen. There’s a delicate balance to perfection.
By M.E. Royce2 years ago in Fiction
