Emily Finhill
Bio
I'm just a tormented spinster authoress, trapped in the life of a happy suburban mom.
Stories (19)
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Frozen
It was warm when time stopped working. Eudosia remembered that, later. It was warm, and the air smelled like an intoxicating blend of jasmine and melting popsicle. She was laying, as usual, on her back and in her backyard, riffling her fingers across the overgrown grass and enjoying the particular way the sun pulsed behind the shifting leaves. And then time stopped. Everything stopped, all around her. The leaves stopped rustling. The breeze ceased breezing. The black ants froze their eternal march up to their nest and back again.
By Emily Finhill2 years ago in Fiction
Meltdown: Chapter Three
*originally published on Medium* The room is illuminated only by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. I’m so cold, lines of sharp and cold crossing to hold me down to the chair beneath me. There is a table in front of me, familiar, like in the room where doctors with no faces ask me questions with no answers, but the room is not white. It is not bright. It is not sanitized. The air tastes thick, as if it has already been breathed a hundred times.
By Emily Finhill3 years ago in Fiction
