Alana Stickles
Stories (17)
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The Hills on Which We Die
The clack of Arabella’s shoes reverberated through the house as she ran, tears streaking down her face as she glanced behind herself. She didn’t see anything, but she could certainly feel it. She held her deep mauve skirts aloft in her delicate fingers, but with her attention faced behind her, she didn’t notice they’d slipped, and she tripped. She caught herself, pain lancing through her wrists, up to her elbows. She heard quick footsteps behind her and scrambled to try and rise. It was too late. A shadow loomed over her, stretched drastically by the window behind it.
By Alana Stickles4 years ago in Fiction
Trapped
Wake up. If only it was so easy. Waking up, pulling myself from the grasping hands of unconsciousness. I could hear the pleas and quiet sobs from voices I once knew. I can no longer decipher who they are, or even if they’re really there. Sometimes the fog of sleep lifts, only slightly, and I believe I can feel my mother’s hand on my cheek, or hear my father’s snores. I try to reach out to those sensations, but I am thrown once again into unpleasant slumber.
By Alana Stickles4 years ago in Fiction
Love is in Bloom
There she stood, looking like she always did. Beauty incarnate. The sun was setting behind her, framing her in pink and gold light. Her hips swayed as she walked, lips moving along to music they couldn't hear yet, but Jex knew her voice was soft and melodic. Her head tilted back and forth to the tune, sending her long brown hair dancing softly. If angel wings had unfurled from her back Jex wouldn't have been surprised. As she reached her partner, she turned her gaze toward theirs. Her eyes were deep brown; golden when the light hit them just so. Jex swore they could see the very depths of her perfect soul and mind swimming within her eyes.
By Alana Stickles4 years ago in Marriage
A Little Chocolate Never Hurt
A smile played on Kara's lips as she set a pan into the oven, humming a tune as she did so. Flour was speckled on her arms and hands, bright against the darkness of her skin. Her smile and song were cheerful as she cleaned, placing her ingredients back into their homes. When she was done, she went back to the couch, scrolling on her phone and waiting for the timer to ding its merry little melody.
By Alana Stickles4 years ago in Fiction
The Barn
The deep red walls of the barn were the color of blood beneath the setting sun. Night swept over the land like Death, painting the sky in red and black. The world was not a real one, but rather a fabrication, born of blood and horrifying sacrifice. One of those sacrifices stood at the door of the barn, black hair dancing playfully in the wind, eyes glaring out over the fields bathed in darkness. Beside him stood a woman, with glittering violet eyes. Concern was etched in every line of her face. She could sense the magic radiating from the barn, and what she felt made her sick to her stomach.
By Alana Stickles5 years ago in Horror
