Caroline Ghenadenik
Bio
Hi!
I'm a young writer who wants to get my stuff out there and receive feedback! Hopefully my stories are enjoyable. :)
Stories (2)
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Mint Green Tea Cup
Chattering is heard in the distance and one of the women licks her lips, seemingly hungry after all the socialising she's done. Nearby, a woman sits immobile in the parlour. Her hand rests upon the handle of a delicate mint coloured tea cup. Her eyes, lifeless and unfocused, do not make contact with those of the other women gathered around the room. She drools ever so slightly and her chest occasionally rises, the only sign she has the faintest flicker of life remaining in her body. There is no tea in her cup. No, it is her brain which has soaked up the boiling water, through a hole, dainty as can be, pierced right in the middle of her skull. The lobotomy is barely visible, as her hair is piled upon her head in the most lavish of manners. If not for her drooling and incapability to react to stimulus, one might even think the woman was just tired or dazed, as she was also dressed in the most elegant finery imaginable. Her neck and arms, adorned with jewels, sparkled in the light of the parlour. As the woman keeps her gaze on the nothingness she seems to be staring at, one of the surrounding women, a much older madam, abruptly clears her throat and gestures for the mingling women around to take a seat. None pay any attention to the woman with the mint coloured tea cup. No one, however, sits at her table either. Instead, they whisper to each other in hushed tones, regarding the unmoving woman in the center of the room (as the tables positioned in the parlour were disposed so as to form a circle with one table in the middle) in an almost reverent way. Or maybe the gaze the women cast upon her may be more comparable to a hungry one. But hunger for what?
By Caroline Ghenadenik4 years ago in Fiction
Thump.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The infinite tick of the clock had me wishing the period would end. I wasn't even listening, but even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't block out the incessant noises in my head. One, in particular, stood out from the rest, and annoyed me to no end, not for its volume, but for its familiarity. I couldn't quite place my finger on what this low thumping sounded like. Possibly machinery, or furniture moving. The constant thrum of whatever it was never let up. Could no one else hear it? What was it? My curiosity burned, but I dared not investigate what it was. I was a dreamer, not an adventurer. Or, if you prefer, a coward. I much preferred speculation to action. In fact, sometimes, I'd make up outlandish reasons for the sound's existence. Anything from aliens to someone punching a cardboard box was plausible in my mind. I always chuckled at what I could come up with. Occasionally, however, when the thumping stopped, only for a second, I'd wonder if I'd ever have the courage to actually seek out its source. Every single time I would lose my nerve. The images that invaded my mind convinced me that death or injury would be a heavy price to pay to satisfy my curiosity.
By Caroline Ghenadenik4 years ago in Horror
