E.S.Flint

Joined October 2025

13 stories

Bio

I’m an Indigenous storyteller using poetry and short fiction to explore identity, love, loss and all the spaces we return to.

What I can't say, I write. Because feeling it all is the point.

Follow me on IG: es.flint

Stories (13)

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Still Breathing
Sweetgrass smoke curls low under the cold listening moon embers breathe alive.
By E.S.Flint 4 days ago in Poets
Aftertaste
I was excited to explore you.  Not to claim you.  Not to fix you.  To move through you slowly,  like a place you don’t want to misread.
By E.S.Flint 5 days ago in Poets
Year of the Quiet Furnace
I mark the year not by dates but by what survived me. ............. Winter arrived like a verdict— clean, unquestionable.
By E.S.Flint 12 days ago in Poets
Object Permanence
I was the bright thing. The new tab left open. The song on repeat at 3 a.m. I was everything all at once. .............
By E.S.Flint 25 days ago in Poets
We Almost Happened, Didn't We
I met you in a season that wasn't ready for us- the air too thin, the days too loud, our lives running parallel like two trains
By E.S.Flint about a month ago in Poets
The Room Behind the Stove
No one had opened the room behind the stove since before Lena was born. The old house sat on the edge of the river flats, where the bank curved like a cupped hand. The land held the kind of stillness that made every sound feel louder: a bird's wingbeat, a far-off truck on the concession road, the crack of the woodstove settling as it warmed.
By E.S.Flint about a month ago in Fiction
Sky-Blue
I reach for Sky-Blue where the daylight fades, The river bends with echoes—echoes I cannot name, A sky so vast it burns me through the shades.
By E.S.Flint about a month ago in Poets
The Ghosts That Won't Grow Old
The river remembers, remembers what we cannot hold, Ashes in the wind burn under the sky, My hands claw at ghosts, claw at ghosts that won't grow old.
By E.S.Flint about a month ago in Poets
Where the Cold Begins to Sing
The wind's first cold breath tastes of iron- thin and mineral-rich, like licking a blade left out in the cold. It slips between my teeth,
By E.S.Flint 2 months ago in Poets
When the World Forgets to Listen
O Grandmother who never sleeps, you've been hanging there longer than truth itself - watching our small and stubborn movements,
By E.S.Flint 2 months ago in Poets
The House That Still Burns
... I am told that I am a haunted house, hollow boards groaning under ghosts, a draft in the corridor where no one lingers.
By E.S.Flint 2 months ago in Poets
The Hunger Between Us
I track you through the marrow of the trees,  their ribs creaking in the cold like a prayer half-said.  You move ahead of me — shadow, breath, pulse —
By E.S.Flint 2 months ago in Poets

E.S.Flint

Bio

Stories .css-1svwz57-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-default-mute);}(13)

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Still Breathing

Aftertaste

Year of the Quiet Furnace

Object Permanence

We Almost Happened, Didn't We

The Room Behind the Stove

Sky-Blue

The Ghosts That Won't Grow Old

Where the Cold Begins to Sing

When the World Forgets to Listen

The House That Still Burns

The Hunger Between Us

Stories (13)