e m wren

Joined February 2021

8 stories

Bio

e m wren is a multidisciplinary writer and visual artist. her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sink Hollow, Asterism, The Scarab, Beaver Magazine, The Shore, and others.

Stories (8)

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34 million passengers, daily.
the sky opened and sheets of rain started to pour from heaven. instantly soaked, Harlow ran the last few feet to the covered bus stop and ducked inside. she unzipped her thin windbreaker and shook as much water as she could from its surface before running her fingers through her hair and wringing out the sopping wet strands. she was wet to her bones.
By e m wrenabout a year ago in Fiction
pocket metal.
a girl at puts a quarter into the cold silver mouth of a payphone as the sky goes dark. on the other side of the line, a boy listens to her panic, her heavy breathing, a car
By e m wren3 years ago in Poets
distance.
Lucy walked through the tall evergreen trees, letting her fingers trail across the wet bark. It was that gray season, where it was hard to tell what time it was just by looking at the sky. It was cold, but not as cold as it had been the last few days. The ground cracked under her boots, still frozen, though all the snow had melted. She could see her breath, feel the chill pressing its sharp fingers through the too thin fabric of her coat.
By e m wren4 years ago in Fiction
the house that grows
The first time she saw the house, it frightened her. Both its presence and its shape sent a stutter through her. She puzzled over its perfectly small-squareness, its overflowing window boxes, its wild garden, the way it glowed in the morning sunshine.
By e m wren4 years ago in Fiction
unapologetics.
unapologetics. how do we not grow hopeless once we’ve abandoned the laying on of hands. i imagine your sun-warmed palm
By e m wren4 years ago in Poets
preserve.
I can’t say for sure where it started, or even the driving force behind it. Maybe it was something sparkling I wanted to keep forever, maybe a memory I was afraid to forget one day, but when I was very young I started collecting. Small trinkets. Pebbles and gems. Plastic baubles to hang from lanyards, necklaces, eventually-- when I was old enough to drive-- my rearview mirror. Fortunes from cookies that offered vague ideas of hope or a windfall of good luck. Notebooks to write everything down. And, before too long, photographs.
By e m wren5 years ago in Humans
pantones:
i associate my first kiss with a kaleidoscope of two very specific shades i can pin by number, color code the moment like this: the blue shock of a chlorinated pool tangling with a blazing july
By e m wren5 years ago in Poets
Ashes to Ashes.
ashes to ashes. Luke pulled his old 4Runner off the barely paved road into a break in the thick evergreen tree line. He’d missed it on the first pass and had to double back. Once he’d made the turn, he could see the memory of a well-worn driveway. He cut the engine and sat, staring through the blanket of fog, but he couldn’t see anything. He got out of the truck, popped the hatch, and considered his gear. He grabbed what he needed, closed the truck, and walked away from the road, up the lane.
By e m wren5 years ago in Humans

e m wren

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Stories .css-1svwz57-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-default-mute);}(8)

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34 million passengers, daily.

pocket metal.

distance.

the house that grows

unapologetics.

preserve.

pantones:

Ashes to Ashes.

Stories (8)