Monica S Wilson
Bio
If you want to be a writer, write.
Stories (4/0)
Special Delivery
It was dark inside the box. Only a few pinpricks of light would highlight an eye, a foot. I stood in the corner at first, but the others would press so much when the box tipped that I moved along one side. Along the way, I stepped on wetness- vomit or urine from one of the others.
By Monica S Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
junk
A car’s tires crunched on the gravel and the squeaks began. Evie’s body tensed, and she pulled her feet up even though the rain boots came up to her knees, not that it mattered; the mice would run over anything: shoulders, knees, heads, whatever was even with the disturbed piles they had nested in. Luckily the squeaks and pitter-patter beat a retreat in another direction, and she put her feet back down on the stack of newspapers that stepped their way to the pile of Life magazines that had absorbed her last half hour.
By Monica S Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
thief
VJ put his back against the cement wall, closed his eyes, and pushed all the air out of his lungs. He’d been gulping breath on top of breath until he felt like he was going to pop. The few cans he had managed to trade for were slowing him down; they were too heavy to keep up with them, so he kicked his bag into one of the crevices of the crumbling wall and covered it with a piece of dirtied glass. The remaining shards crunched as he peeked around the corner and started stacking breaths again until he saw the girl who was holding the man’s hand come out between the market stalls; then all the air came out in one big whoosh. They were disappearing down the next aisle and VJ bolted to the other side to intercept them.
By Monica S Wilson3 years ago in Fiction