Alycia "Al" Davidson
Bio
I am an author who has been writing creatively since the age of ten. My first novel was published at fifteen and I am currently drafting a space opera. I love creative and unique horror.
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Stories (11)
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The Vocal Challenge, The Novel, and The Life Changing "Post"
I've always wanted to be an author. I knew it all the way back when I was ten years old. I was visiting a friend of mine and noticed a book with a fantastical red cover (it was Inkheart by Cornelia Funke) on her bed and the whole world halted. I stopped everything I was doing and sat down to read it. My friend was annoyed, rightfully so, but I plowed through five chapters before my mom called me downstairs so we could head home.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson3 years ago in Journal
Wayward Souls
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I think that’s awfully assuming. Awfully presumptuous. A bit pretentious and possibly true. I doubt anyone ever tried to test it. Not really. Not a true, gut wrenching and agonized scream. One of terror and pain. The whole of the time this project was enacted, the years we spent orbiting the earth, I’m sure the only screams were ones of joy. Of new life. Of happiness.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson3 years ago in Fiction
Welcome to The Valley
There weren’t always dragons in The Valley. They arrived much later, like phantoms from the shadows. Once the reeds had grown tall, the mountains had been carved down, and the trees had tangled themselves up like lovers. The dragons came with the last wave of changes. The Valley needed impact. Guardians to lure in adventurers with their jewel colored scales and legends of riches. So, the dragons came into existence.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson4 years ago in Fiction
Hunting Boots
The storm outside was brutal. The small town’s roads were hardly cared for this time of year, even though it was inevitable that snow would roll in ‘bout now. Cassie couldn’t see the street outside the window, the single working lightbulb above the two gas pumps flickered from the cold snap that had swept over the day. A morning fog had turned to sleet which turned to powder. She was bored. All of her friends had headed into the city for a concert, they were probably in cute outfits, drinking draft beer, swaying to the slow strum of a guitar. And here she was, snowed in overnight in the station with her hardback novel and barely two bars of signal. At least the pay was decent.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson4 years ago in Horror
Psycho: The Godfather of Slashers
They say you never forget your first. My parents used to tell this story about a night when I was around three or four years old, they left me and my brother with a baby-sitter so they could go to a church function. A potluck, a night without the kids, probably a few riveting rounds of bingo. Apparently, as the tale goes, this lovely and sweet teen from our little baptist church thought it would be a great idea to let me watch "Psycho" with her. Everything seemed fine until the next morning, when I started running around the house with a play knife from my Fisher Price kitchen making the infamous nose that accompanied that scene. Ree! Ree! Ree! My parents called up the babysitter, she admitted everything. They were less than thrilled. While I don’t remember this, I do remember how profoundly important "Psycho" always seemed to be in the world of horror and media in general. All its iterations, homages, and impacts. I went to a film camp, a Christian film camp, in my teens and even they could not help but use the movie in references for framing, camera angles, storytelling. My local Red Robin had a blown up still of Marion Leigh’s final moments, that terrified shrieking visage, hanging outside the bathrooms. Framed in gold. Classy.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson4 years ago in Horror
The House on Marlow Lane
There stands a house on Marlow Lane. In this house lives a deafening sense of silence. It’s tucked away so tightly amongst the great oaken trees it was built within that no sound, nor wind, nor creature of earth or sky dare to trespass. The wind chimes on the porch no longer sing, the wooden floors no longer creak, and the grandfather clock on the second floor landing sits quietly alone. Forever frozen at 3:03pm. The house has never seen a murder, nor was it born on sacred ground. No curse was ever laid on the clay below, no ritual ever desecrated its heart. Opposite of this fact, no children have ever laughed in its homely halls, no Christmas gatherings were ever made into memory in its grand living room. For you see, the house died long ago, breathing life no more and never again.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson4 years ago in Horror
It's Cold
It’s cold. Bitter. The kind of cold that, no matter how many cigarettes you smoke, shots of whiskey you down, or logs you burn on the fire, everything still hurts. It's always cold. My fingertips lost all feeling a long while ago. I’m well acquainted with how my breath looks before my nose, how it escapes my lungs when I step outside like a punch to the gut. I don’t know how long it’s been like this, how long the winds have carried the snow. How long ago the world simply stopped. When the sun went away. You lose sense of time after the sun stops showing up. The clouds are too thick. I pretend every day is Saturday. Just to keep a smile on my face.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson4 years ago in Fiction
The Shadow in the Pear Tree
A pear tree looked down upon the sprawling fields and rolling hills beneath it. It was old, as old as Mother Earth, and just as fickle. The land that encompassed it was owned by an axman. He lived in a humble cottage with his young daughter. She danced in the tall grass, swung from the trees, ate the gifts of the soil, and made jewelry from its spoils. The green expanse was her playground and her father only gave one command.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson4 years ago in Fiction
12:07am
One. Two. Dot-dot. Zero. Four. A.M. The moon was bright and perfectly round. Like a brand new nickel. Shiny, silver, that untouched-by-messy-human-hands kind of new. Young Lily Pikeman kept her eyes glued to the vivid green numbers on the oven display. She was in her long nightgown of pink and lace, eagerly anticipating the moment her eyes would see it change to one two dot-dot zero six A.M. That was when her birthday really began according to her mother, who told her the cupcakes were off limits until the actual moment she entered the world. When the clock had a one then a two, with two tiny dots, then a zero and a six on it - 12:06 - she would truly be older. Thus deserving of the coveted prize. She was eyeing the cupcake on the counter, just barely out of reach of her tiny, soon-to-be four year old hands. If she was careful enough she could slide a kitchen chair across the pure white tiles and get one of the shiny pink treats without waking her mother and father down the hall.
By Alycia "Al" Davidson4 years ago in Horror
