Amelia Grace Newell
Bio
Stories order our world, soothe our pains and fight our boredom, deepen or sever relationships and dramatize mundane existence. Our stories lift us or control us. We must remember who wrote them.
*Amelia Grace Newell is a pen name.*
Stories (30)
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In the Rafters
There were no pigeons in the rafters today. Odd, with the rain outside. Where were they? They shouldn't fly in this weather. The rain would make their feathers heavy and make it difficult to see. Pigeons can't have very good eyesight. Very inefficient. They must be resting somewhere else today. Why? What was wrong with my barn? I keep it much cleaner now than before. The rafters are high and stable, with absolutely no splinters. I made sure. I almost broke my wrist getting rid of them. I have a doctor, though, and I don't need to use my wrist to hold onto telephone wires or branches like they do. Plus, I've practiced always catching myself with my left hand so that I can still hold a fork if I'm injured. I would have been fine. The pigeons don't have any health insurance.
By Amelia Grace Newell5 years ago in Fiction
May She Always Reign
They struck the death blow at dawn. Always dawn. First, warning signs -- smaller attacks, traps, isolated kills. Scouts would return, shaken, with stories of intruders threatening our hunting ground. As summer wore on, fewer and fewer would return at all. Then, attacks at home -- the enemy would threaten the colony directly, once they found us. Their children would throw rocks at our walls, emboldened by their long-time military superiority. We tried desperately to defend our home, but attacking the young only brought our ruin faster and harsher. Eventually we gave up, fleeing even the smallest of them on sight. We knew we were no match for their warriors, and they always defended their young, no matter who made the first strike.
By Amelia Grace Newell5 years ago in Fiction
The Best Things in Life are...free.
My mother and I loved to drop into antique shops and follow “Garage sale” signs when I was growing up, satisfying our shared addictions of hidden treasures and good discounts. My sister was not as enthusiastic as my mother and me, but she indulged our imaginations and was generally a good sport, if not quite as willing to lose a day as we were on our own. Any time the three of us girls were out of town together without my dad, we would go to any antique shop, thrift store, garage or estate sale we could find until whatever appointment we were in town for or we got too hungry to wait.
By Amelia Grace Newell5 years ago in Humans
Chapter 1: Footprints
The footprints meandered, but not in a way that suggested staggering frat boys or beachcombers looking for shells. No, these were deeper, carefully chosen, and mixed with half-prints where their creator tested the ground, thought better of it and retracted the step. The path was winding and uneven, but from deliberation, not carefree or drunken wandering.
By Amelia Grace Newell5 years ago in Fiction
