Stephanie Bojanek
Bio
Editor of The Failing Artist mag 🎨 Ghostwriter & copywriter by day, novelist by night 📚 Lover of Erotic, Fiction, Horror, Nonfiction, and essays 🖋️ Let's challenge norms and unleash our artistic souls!
Stories (12/0)
Nails of the Mermammals: A Tail of Origins and Transformations
I counted the days by how much my child's fingernails grew. Half an inch measured two days. One inch measured four days. I knew it would be one week if they became long enough to trim. I taught them this same technique for telling time and space. They had many questions, each of them answered repeatedly and always enthusiastically. I always enjoyed telling them our family's fingernail origin story and why our manicure rituals were so important to us.
By Stephanie Bojanek 9 months ago in Fiction
A Letter Never Sent
Hey there old friend, A lot has happened since I last saw you. The world is burning, everyone is full of rage, communities are turning on themselves, and here I am still thinking about you. When the air feels gray I imagine the night we went to the cemetery. We really wanted to see that albino woman. Now, I don’t think we could’ve handled the scare. But, do you remember what happened that night? I lost my phone, so we had to go back to look for it. Not an easy task as we had just fled the grounds out of fear of night birds. I was afraid my mom was going to kill me if she found I lost my phone and how. So, you went back to the abyss of that cemetery with me. We looked on the ground as you called my phone over and over. We didn’t find it that night. We went back the next morning to look in the daylight. Within 10 minutes you had found it lying face down in the grass, battery dead. My soul aches remembering this. Not since have I found a friend big enough to face the dark with. You were a golden spirit in my life that night.
By Stephanie Bojanek about a year ago in Poets
Haunted by the Slaughterhouse
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. At first, I thought I must be extremely drowsy from the cough medicine, but then it kept happening even after the cough went away. The mirror was an antique we found in the attic when my spouse and I first bought this house. We had left it up there for the first two years until our bathroom mirror broke. It was random, now that I think about it, as if our mirror just hopped off metal studs in the wall and plummeted to it's death. I had asked Archer if they had a mental breakdown and needed to blow off some steam, but they said they didn't do it. As unbelievable as the mirror falling on it's own was, I knew Archer was telling the truth because they've never been the aggressive type. We brushed the mirror aside and took the antique mirror out from it's cozy nook. Archer and I spent the weekend fixing it up. We did stuff like that often. Both of us grew up in rough homes. When we got married, we promised to create a life of softness together. So we crafted and worked with our hands almost every day together. We keep our life simple and small; it gives us more freedom than any career our parents tried shoving down our throats. My dad was a pig farmer, and Archer's father was the best hunter known in the United States. He even had books written about him, "Jimmy Nelson's Greatest Adventures Outdoors." What they really meant by "Outdoors" was Jimmy spent hours hiding in places meant for bears, moose, and any large nonhuman animal and shot them and their families. Not the outdoors that Archer and I participate in. And for what? Just to hang another skin on the wall to tell all their friends their losers for not being able to sneak up on animals as well as he can. He can barely look at his own child because they're queer, but he can accept himself when he kills things that don't need killing. It's pathetic really; and scary. Now to explain my father. Well, you know how owners start looking their pets? He started resembling the pigs years ago. I spent my life hearing the tortured squeals and screams echoing from the barn. I still need noise at night to fall asleep or all I will hear are those death cries. Needless to say, Archer and I have devoted our lives to being the opposite of what our fathers are. And we have done really well at it. Until we accepted that mirror into our home.
By Stephanie Bojanek about a year ago in Horror
Underneath
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. The air crisp on my pale skin. I could not remember a time when the air was not piercing. The cold sang its beautifully sullen song every day, with no sign of becoming fatigued. It kept me on my toes. For here, if you place one wrong foot, you risk losing it. I had seen it happen many times, and never again will I not look down at my footing. There were brave ones who walked in groups; each week counting the casualties. There were those who didn't move at all, and those who only moved in a rhythmic pattern. Then there were those like me, lone wanderers. That is what they call us. The ones no one pays attention to. The ghosts. But whatever the role you chose, it didn't really matter. Because every night at midnight we all stopped, took a deep breath of bravery, and looked up. That one habitual act of reverence tied us all together, only moments before the clouds turned to a dark, looming green. The spell was broken, and we all went on our ways.
By Stephanie Bojanek about a year ago in Fiction
An Emo Music Theory
The confession that I never left my emo phase has to be made. I often look in the mirror and get excited because I am now my younger self’s version of cool. A subject I like to think is not debatable. It is not just my look that would have younger me doing cartwheels though. Not only was I daydreaming about who my next crush was going to be every other day, but I was also daydreaming about ways I could improve myself as a person. I would be more than happy to report to my inner child all the meditation, therapy, and various self-improvement activities they tried, paid off.
By Stephanie Bojanek 3 years ago in Beat
How My Love Story Made Me Earth Conscious
Many would classify me as someone who "lives with their head in the clouds". Maybe they are right. Although, I can't say I mind the stereotype. One that many get labeled for the mere fact they have actual hope for life. I can find hope in just about any situation, and once I finally got introduced to what a carbon footprint is there was no going back. My hope had already grown attached to the idea of bettering the Earth and deepening my connection to it. Seeing everything as a “we” instead of an “I” changed my perspective forever.
By Stephanie Bojanek 3 years ago in Earth
