two mouths crawling the Medusa legs us pale girls virulence being told is our blood and bones.
I'm currently in search of a beta reader or two to help give feedback on my WIP, maybe even hash out ideas.
In the present moment, she awaited the inevitable. She strayed from Oktavia even more so—to the point the human noticed her odd looks and disappointment; their hands had bumped into each other when trying to reach for the artificial sweetener jar—and Mischa flinched like a fish waiting to be gutted by their captor. In retrospect, however--
"...I am not even flattering you, she probably just glanced at you and decided what she would feel, like clockwork,” he snapped his fingers. “You need to end this.” "And how do you expect me to do that?” Mischa didn’t dare break away eye contact. Respect was the only thing she had left, if it wasn’t love. "You do it carefully, Koch. Very carefully.”
"But, you're neglecting to tell me everything. I know that, Mischa. What have you been hiding from me?" She looked almost sad as she put their dishes in the sink. 'Your memories, Oktavia. That's what I'm hiding.' "Mischa? Where are you going? Don't walk away from me."
She could barely remember the former king, but she knew enough modern history that the colonies dispersed before killing each other in a series of small wars. It was knowledge that felt natural to her. She was in enough battles, recalling in distant psychological experience, to warrant the existential solipsistic dread that when she held the sword, she was the only one that mattered in anyone's eyes. Including her father's.
“Mischa, have I done something to upset you?” Oktavia’s terrifying presence made her flit for the knife, before dropping it back down on the cutting board. “What?” “There is some… type of vomit on the vegetable cutting board.” “What are you—No, no, I just chopped up the carrots—over and over again.”
At her feet, she found something joyful. The horizon cleared and she too sat on the ground. Her gaze locked with Mischa. "I didn't think we'd see each other again." "Given what you do? It was likely," Mischa was hoarse, hesitating to move from the ground. The glow suppressed Oktavia's features, in which the illusion was consolable that she was safe. Her head rolled to the side, almost touching the robot's knee.
“Did you think I’d forget you, my Mischa?” Somehow, her voice didn’t falter into emotion, yet her chest sunk as she looked into the human’s eyes. She swallowed. Focus. Oktavia, in her dark moment, squeezed tightly before dropping Mischa to the ground. At her feet, she found something joyful. The horizon cleared and she too sat on the ground. Her gaze locked with Mischa. “I didn’t think we’d see each other again.”
Anastasia was stirred to the sound of heavy breathing. “You are surely to die.” “Then perhaps you will too.”
I’m ecstatic to announce that my poem, “I gather white flowers” appears in Volume 8, Chapter 8 of Visual Verse Anthology.
Lauren let out a grunt into the dark cave, legs locking onto Artemis’s; her strength collapsed into the mutant who inhabited her space closely, soon fallen to the death of tenebrous nightfall.
the tea cup shatters only once
“I know you saw something in the light, Tom. We all did. You can’t trust the words of a fucking maniac that tried to kill us—you have to trust what you saw.”
“Think, Lauren. Really think. Why would she tell me this otherwise?”
“To not remember!” Lauren inched closer to him, eyes blazing. He couldn’t look away from her if he tried. “If I remember Clarence at least, then she’s real to me.”
Lauren grit her teeth, trying to ignore Artemis. Of catastrophic darkness, she could see eyes watching her in motion. She sank into internal refuge as the shadows held the branches above them.
“If you thought any of it was real after all, I’m sorry to take that away from you.”
A very intriguing short sci-fi story that leaves you wanting more.
Isobelle was cold, but she was always cold these days so it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered when you got to be her age, other than making sure no-one realised that you were three hundred and seventy nine years old. Thank hell she didn’t have to contend with the kind of restrictions the books had always told her she would, she didn’t have to stay out of the sun for fear of burning, or avoid garlicky dishes. In fact she could still eat human food, although she had to throw it up afterwards, but eating was one of the ways she was able to blend in, that and having a normal non-nocturnal life not like some kind of obvious demon of the night.
Over the years she’d tried changing her looks but very little stayed, her body instantly healed so piercings were soon pushed out, her hair somehow returned to…
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Lauren could no longer hesitate with her emotions. She had been frozen into the distinction of time and above all, tragedies—first with losing her parents, protecting her brother, Tom, as they were forced into memory loops and injections, then looking out for themselves on the island. She had to put other people out there to die, to disfigure themselves at the mercy of ash and topaz river-beds but she would do it again for him. Artemis, however, made this thinking process very difficult.