Bianca Hubbard
Bio
"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect." --Anaïs Nin
I love to write, read, and laugh! I can be found reading fanfiction, spending time with my nieces and nephews or relaxing with my cat after work.
Achievements (1)
Stories (40)
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Not Before It Caught the Rat.... Content Warning.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. A simple concept for someone with no inquisitive bone in their body. For me? It was practically a neon sign over grungy, walnut stained frame and phosphorescent paint around the doorknob.
By Bianca Hubbardabout a year ago in Horror
Solemn Blankets. Top Story - February 2024.
Cushioned dust in hues of glacial blue and artic white sprawl the hillside. Each roll mimicking that of small children tucked in warm comforters. The bench, hardly used, stuck out of the landscape like an Ancient Wonder lost in modernization. Mossy green eyes stared at the expanse, yet no rolling swells were in sight. I can’t. I CAN'T DO THIS! You never, NEVER consider me! You quit your job to move to another position with less pay. The decision? Made by yourself. Uproot our life to move two states over? Who made that decision? Oh! I know, it was you. All. By. YOURSELF! Every lie you tell yourself is that you're doing this for us! You're a coward. The only thing you continue to do is run. Run from your own misery because you are inept! Blistering cold gnawed at exposed skin, drying already malnourished flesh. Crystalized water, unique shards of careless ice dance, shadowing each word like text graphics. Lovely for extra points; pathetic and cruel in romantic notions. Burning chills cut through layers, a red hot iron faced against cheap copy paper. Tinkering chimes ride the winds, taunting with reminders of alto growls. Low and feral like a cornered animal. Ill-tempered winds linger, transporting bitter remorse like stars crossing the Milky Way. Come spring, when snowfall nourishes the ground, memories will sprout. Distant stories will be prominent as the headstones rise like tulips. Each carving a grotesque reminder. Words spoken are not easily returned from erroneous speech like melted snow.
By Bianca Hubbard2 years ago in Fiction
Who Knows What I Am?
May of 2023. Just a few months from year 35 on this orbital rock; metal, gas and moisture coated planet. I had a startling fact bloom in front of my heart and grip it like a pitcher. Baseball in hand and needing one last strike out to win the championship. Bases loaded and the batter with a full count. Bottom of the 9th and everything is riding on the pitch.
By Bianca Hubbard2 years ago in Writers
Listen... We Need to Talk
Dear Heart, We have been together long enough to know better, I would think. Maybe I shouldn’t assume the logical choice would stand out because you have never been one for logic. Emotional outbursts and irrational feels is your modus operandi and I am just a hostage to your own self-destruction.
By Bianca Hubbard3 years ago in Poets
20 Years In The Making
To Whom It May Concern: That may be too formal for the conversation we need to have. The conversation that we should’ve had that you didn’t know about. A conversation that was almost twenty years in the making, one that I have gotten no closer to knowing what should be said versus what I needed to hear. No closer to knowing what I needed to know. I could start with “You are enough.” That phrase could’ve made us feel some margin of complete, three little words that we could have heard that would have made us ok.
By Bianca Hubbard3 years ago in Poets
Do You Even Want Love?
You asked that question so callously. Did you consider that want and deserve are two separate conditions? Consider that as much as I, with grabby hands like a baby, want it, crave it like plants crave nitrogen, will continue to watch it fall through short, stubby fingers.
By Bianca Hubbard3 years ago in Poets
Purple Street's Majesty
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. The porch swings as the wind chimes tune their pipes, preparing for the soiree to begin. Lounging lazily astride the banister, her back rested against the house while she waits. The streetlights flickered like neon signs on corner store windows, a beacon to gather nightlife and quietly advertise their wares. Tiny mushroom like fungi appeared on the trees lining the street as little fair ones came out and plopped down the spotted tops until they reached ground below.
By Bianca Hubbard3 years ago in Fiction
What stories the walls could tell
If these walls could talk, a closet of bones would fall out like remnants in an ogre’s den. Hearts would shatter like glass assaulted by lead bookends, crushed and pulverized, leaving fragments in floorboards to rise again in anger at their anguish. Witnessing the man tell his wife, a waif creature with chestnut brown hair piled in a messy knot, that his infidelity has robbed her of her security. I felt her rushing pulse as she used me to steady her trembling legs, each ounce of effort she had diverted to making her limbs strong like stone. Her tears falling to soak into the baseboards, silent and desolate.
By Bianca Hubbard3 years ago in Fiction
