Caitlin Swan
Bio
Actor, reader, writer. A storyteller playing my part in a bigger story.
Stories (15)
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The Youth With No Name
In those days, the youth most often found himself beneath the old willow slumped over the outer river. He liked to listen to the water’s clear song in the shade more than the growing racket back home. Sometimes, he wished he could abandon himself in his reflection and let the water carry him away.
By Caitlin Swan4 years ago in Fiction
The Living Ghost
Though it looked like any ordinary house from the street, the moment one walked through Mrs. Erinn’s door they would feel they had entered a museum rather than someone’s home – either that or the storage room of a museum after it had been blown apart by an explosion then put back together in under five minutes. This could have caused many problems, and indeed it had in the past, but Mrs. Erinn rarely received visitors anymore. She wasn’t shy, nor did she harbour any particular dislike for social interaction. On the contrary, she yearned for the company of others and made every effort to be included in the goings on of the hundreds of people she was acquainted with. Yet the more she tried, the more distant people became. They just didn’t want to do things the way she did! No one understood.
By Caitlin Swan4 years ago in Fiction
To Be or Not to Be
The lake hadn't always been black. Once I could see past the blue waters to green fields glistening beneath a rose sky. I think I dreamt of being a schoolteacher back then, with vague aspirations of teaching children in some new sensational method I was going to invent. Nothing particular really happened which discouraged me from pursuing such a noble endeavour. There wasn't even a moment when I gave up. I guess I simply moved on – I wish I could say to bigger and better things, but that's one lie I don't bother trying to convince myself of. Suffice to say I barely noticed the grass dying or the sky dimming until one day the far shore was a dry wasteland and the horizon a starless shadow. The blue had dulled to a murky mass of grey ripples.
By Caitlin Swan4 years ago in Horror
A Moment Ahead. Top Story - August 2021.
If people actually knew Esther Ringell, she would have been the topic of every conversation had when there’s nothing else to talk about. Really, it was quite a talent to be someone so odd as Esther yet still avoid being the focus of others’ tongues. When Esther ever pondered this, she would always conclude that her extravagance was such that it was noticed in the moment but forgotten afterwards – especially once she had returned to the safety of her habitual demeanour that had the basic outward appearance of a blank wall. The excuse she loved most when some noticed this stark difference and asked her about it was that she had reserved so much energy (and face muscles) from appearing like a zombie that she could be ‘wild’ and ‘crazy’ with no effort or second thought.
By Caitlin Swan4 years ago in Fiction
Off the Edge
“It was sunset, I think.” Lea was sitting across from her father in Harley’s Hut on the fourth day of their hike across the Craggy Mountains. A hiker’s breakfast of canned tuna, crackers, avocado, and two mugs of hot chocolate sat between them on the roughly hewn wooden table. “I don’t know why, but morning somehow feels different to the evening, even in dreams apparently.”
By Caitlin Swan4 years ago in Fiction
Survival Without a Fight
Most people would give anything to cheat death, but they don’t know what they’re really wishing for. It sounds nice in theory, I’ll give them that. Even I once thought I was lucky to be spared so often – tripping in the uneven street as a badly thrown knife whizzed over my head; landing in a passing cart piled with hay when I fell from the top of a tree; accidentally jamming the lid shut on the pot of boiling water before it toppled onto me… I could go on. Yet in some instances, staying alive isn’t all that wonderful.
By Caitlin Swan4 years ago in Fiction
More Than Mere Bones
Like the waters of the deep, the shark exhibition was lit only by shadowy, wavery light that rippled across the blue obsidian walls and floors. Even so, the shapes of the sharks could not be made to look any livelier, for they were merely bones – dead bones in a room alive with dappling lights and, today, a class full of children.
By Caitlin Swan4 years ago in Fiction
The First Time Again
Maybe it was the excitement of our holiday that made the shock seem greater – that and our childish delight upon entering the gorgeous wooden cabin and exploring its small yet thrilling confines for the first time. Nothing was too plain or insignificant to receive an awe-filled ‘woah!’ or ‘this is so cool!’ whether it be the woollen rugs covering the couches, the stone-paved fireplace, or the breathtaking view of the mountains from the balcony. You can never be too old to freak out about an amazing place. When there are no real adults or real kids around, the standards for what three twenty-year old’s should behave like goes completely out the door and down the road to the next town – or something like that.
By Caitlin Swan4 years ago in Fiction
