She dawns a dress. Not her first; perhaps her last. Thoughtless innocence to this evenings events. Nothing new and anticipatory, even still her feign surprise sells the rooms attendees. Their fee is compensated, hypnosis, succumbing to adrenaline drowning their sense. Dilation - Mutation. Victims of her infecting essence. Existence thereafter damnation, longing for emancipation of breath. Painting every step in colbolt, luring dissipated fools. Singular casualties signal only the final act. Presently masses crawl to execution, by her convey. One by one, offerings nourish the ground soaking primeval layers. A frigid sigh leaves her lungs, caressing parted lips. Flames ignite her veins, ablaze the freeze, life shattering the silence. Bare beauty drifts freely but not without a price to pay.
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More stories from Blondie Willett and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Sing Me a Story
I was a traditionalist, still very much am when it comes to relaying my thoughts, speaking my truths, painting my stories through words. Over 80% of my ideas are transcribed on physical pieces of paper, anything blank and able to be scribbled on are my canvases. My notebooks become collages of scraps from newspapers torn, reciept paper slowly fading from fingertips turning them over and over, graded elementary papers, backs of pictures, postcards, even the occasional ticket stub. In and of itself there's a story with every piece, a time period, a thought frozen in the moment it's formulated and consolidated in my brain. While half written sentences and misspelled words can be their own mystery to solve, the time in which its set can immediately take me back, put me in the mindset of 6 year old Blondie. Sitting as high as she can on the jungle gym, anxiously waiting for her parent to arrive to after school care and take her home to stuffing her face with hamburger helper. Passively listening to her father play video games, she'd kick her dangling feet from the barstool she sat at doing "homework" that included coloring in the lines and learning that 1+1 doesnt equal 11.
By Blondie Willett9 months ago in Writers
The Block Mayor
Like every warm day, Terrence is finishing this day on his L-shaped porch, sipping whisky from a dented flask. Cars pass by slowly, and he watches young women pushing babies in strollers; he hears the neighbors’ arguments and knows which have a regular income and those who are unemployed. Terrence is the self-appointed block mayor, laying judgment on his fellow folk.
By Andrea Corwin 4 days ago in Fiction
A Weekend in Buxton
All my life, I’ve been English in an emotional, mental, and social way, but never a physical one until the Spring of 2022 when all my Anglophile dreams came true. I was finally able to visit my soul country, meet my wonderful online friends in person, and confirm my belief that it was where I belonged.
By Emily Albers4 days ago in Wander
Comments (1)
your writing is both captivating and chilling,