Emy McGuire
Stories (4)
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The Hanging
Jason Stray wished the rope around his throat didn’t itch so much. He considered slipping his wrists out of their chains and scratching, but the guards might panic and try to secure him. It could delay his hanging and, well, that would ruin a perfectly nice day. Instead, Jason craned his neck back to take a final look at the sky. It was spotless, scrubbed clean of any cobwebby clouds. At this angle, the village’s chestnut roofs were visible, poking at the endless blue above them and blocking the endless blue behind them.
By Emy McGuire4 years ago in Fiction
Because Summer Never Came
I yank a sweater over my head, then a sweatshirt. My thickest coat buttons up on top of that. I pull on my day gloves, red fingers poking out through the frayed tips. The pinkie sleeve on my left glove hangs empty, a permanent reminder of when my parents had forgotten to put on my night gloves as an infant. Winter had come and stolen that pinkie. Mama called it a warning. Next time, she said, the cold might take me.
By Emy McGuire4 years ago in Fiction
Monday's When the Ghosts Perform
“Don’t forget to turn on the ghost light, Maddie!” The stage manager, Ned, shouted at me from across the theatre. It was well past 10 o’clock on the Sunday before Hell Week. Ned had been working at Pascaly Theatre for two months longer than me, which apparently gave him the authority to boss me around. “Tomorrow’s Monday after all, and you know what Monday means.”
By Emy McGuire4 years ago in Fiction
The Arsonist of Eden
The Garden of Eden was burning. Or more like, the Garden of Eden had burned. Now it was a smoldering graveyard of ruined roots and rotting fruits. The gold gates were crooked, like torn wings of an angel who couldn’t keep evil at bay. I walked through them, undeterred by the smoke. It coiled around my polished oxfords and wound, snakelike, around the blackened stumps of trees. It seemed to be searching for survivors.
By Emy McGuire4 years ago in Fiction
