Sara Jones
Bio
I have been writing for a few years but have not had the courage to publish. I do plan on publishing this year, a compilation of flash fiction, Elements.
Stories (4/0)
How Could I Forget?
The sun is reflecting off the snowflakes as they descend from the arctic blue vaults of heaven. The hushed crunch of the glistening powder beneath one’s feet provides a rhythmic sound on this crisp morning. Strange, I am not dressed for this frigid temperature, yet I do not feel cold. I shrug it off, deciding that my recent workout at the gym still has my body amped up.
By Sara Jones3 months ago in Fiction
Broken Mirror
The mirror showed a reflection that was not my own. As I stare into the glass, my right-hand strokes at my own jawline. My very hand does not even look like mine in the mirror. The hand in the mirror is a faint, blue grey, just like the face peering back at me. That hand appears to be frail, the skin sagging in places upon it. The nails on that hand are ragged, dirty, and unkempt. My own hands, the ones outside of the mirror, appear strong, smooth, and full of life. The backs of my hands are olive in color, the palms are a faint pink, soft and supple. My recently manicured nails are painted a soft, natural, peach tone, although not quite as shiny, as the day before. Odd, the gel polish is beginning to chip, as they were just done two days ago.
By Sara Jonesabout a year ago in Horror
Fire and Desire
As I come around the corner, I catch a glimpse of her. Ususally she can be heard throughout the building, her voice reaching out to those nearby, her laughter beckoning for others to join in. But not today. Her silence is felt like a raging fire in the dead of winter. It is not meant to provide comfort but instead serve as a warning. One that reminds others that it is best not to get to close. Of course there will be those poor thoughtless fools that will tempt to edge to close to see how far they can push her. I have, on more than one occassion, observed such foolish behavior. And the outocme is always the same: they will get burned. By her seemingly coal black eyes as she snaps her head around to catch them encroaching upon her space. Or with words that burn them to their core, flying at them like sparks from a not yet lit fire. At one point where others would choose to turn and walk away, not strong enough to handle this fierce and oftentimes misunderstood element, I continue forward on the scarred path towards her. Though her heat is intense, I forge on. She looks at me intently with her mysterious and deep eyes, her steel gaze penetrating my very soul, seeking out the reasons that I continue to advance. She stands her ground, poised; with an air of confidence that announces to all that she will protect and defend what is hers. But I am not here to challenge her. And deep down she senses that. I have circled her flames for quite some time, watching, waiting. The light within her burns brightly and like others, I am drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. But my intentions are true. So where others have faltered, I continue on, one foot in front of the other, eyes locked with hers, taking the path not taken by others.
By Sara Jones2 years ago in Fiction
