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The Trees Who Wear Their Character on Their Skin

Bark has a painful texture, like it’s been scratched, grooved by claws. Except for gum trees. They look like a snake that’s just shed its skin, but it’s not very good at shedding, so you can still see bits of this layer, and the last layer, and the last layer. At first, it looks like paint splotches, as though the snake zipped through a studio of abstract artists, but then you realize it’s all skin and it’s hard to be as whimsical

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Opening to “Star and Ice” (actual title TBD)

Sema didn’t sleep as well as she used to. Her back ached, the house creaked, and her mind would rise full of thoughts and memories when the stars shone on the ice, which was every night. So, this night, when the crash against the door that made the house shake intruded around the edges of her sleep-muzzed consciousness, she only wrapped the blankets around tighter and curled up on the bed. There was a voice in the wind, she thought

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World Tour, Day 356: A Meditation on the Space between Now and the Future

They say that, in order to be the one to write the end to your stories, you have to tell them first. Until do you, you will let others tell your stories, and you will let others write your endings for you. They usually say this about the stories of our hard times, but I believe this is true of all our stories. *** It’s an odd liminal space, being back. I left so sure I could control everything about

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Virtual Girl (excerpt)

Note: This is all I have so far of an experimental sci-fi story code named Virtual Girl. Expect it to be confusing. Faded chalk art makes me think of the things that could have been and might be again. Does that make sense? I don’t know what does it should have been so simple But here I am again thrown back Blackness Immobile The beeping of machines that can never Never Wake me up again When will I see again?

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Glass

Isabelle took off her glasses, squinting in an attempt to see the hand she held outstretched in front of her face. All that her eyes showed was a great blur. Frustrated, she returned the glasses to their accustomed place and stared at her fingers thoughtfully. ‘How could you think they are artist’s hands?’ her mother’s voice echoed through her mind. ‘It is quite obvious that they are a pianist’s hands. Anyone could see that.’ ‘It’s true,’ Isabelle’s father had agreed,

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Erica's Story (WIP title) | The Books of Bílo (WIP title) #1
First draft 29%
Hunter and Prey | White Changeling #3
First draft 100%

Grow Your Library

Hidden in Sealskin
The Illuminated Heart
Dreaming of Her and Other Stories
The Kitten Psychologist Tries to Be Patient Through Email
The Tree Remembers
Like Mist Over the Eyes
The Kitten Psychologist Broaches the Topic of Economics
The Kitten Psychologist
Plunged Ashore
The Kitten Psychologist Versus The Kitten's Owners