Whitney Carman
Bio
"...even if what I have written does not make sense to anyone--at least--it has helped me a little...And anything that can be whittled down to fit words--is not all madness."
-Lara Jefferson These are My Sisters
Stories (14/0)
Zealous
The front door is locked, and I fumble to find my key, inserting it properly, turning the lock as my chest falls into the door, the spaghetti strap slipped off my shoulder and the air conditioner greets me, cooling and setting the residue left from dancing my face off. My knee hits the corner of the wall, then my toe because of the whirlwind, I left the state of my house like a tornado’s aftermath.
By Whitney Carman3 years ago in Horror
Unconscious Adventure
The wind blowing above the tippy treetop, shaking the leaves, allowing flecks of sun like confetti to move and remain in place. Baby green leaves, sprouts of life and complimentary smells of manure are all sure signs of spring. A sultry 86 degrees makes my blood push hot through my veins into my heart and then the extremities and back to center, always back to center, circumventing all of my internals, signaling perspiration to collect on my forehead, my breast and the back of my neck, and then the wind is caught briefly twirling in another direction over the grass, like seaweed on the floor of the ocean dancing with affectation, giving into the pressure of the water passing over, like a good dance partner. Here, in this field there is no water, only wind and yet I can’t help noticing the effect is precisely similar from a gust on the tall grass, to the edge where the farmers alfalfa meets a lazily manicured lawn. The in-between where the grass has not been cut, and the alfalfa ceases to grow, this small line of land on maps recorded at the country clerk is so clearly marked but realistically, it is a thin strip of unknown; one foot trespasses, the other safely at home. I straddle the unknown, and this is the place that I dig my hole.
By Whitney Carman3 years ago in Psyche
