Francesca Alster
Bio
‘The poetry of prose is something to consider as a limitless form,’ — A dream I dreamt.
Stories (2)
Filter by community
Tischa May
Tischa May was a lady who sat like a lady. At this very moment, she was sitting with her back of the straightest order, more upright than even the walls of the room. Her bottom did not touch the back of the lounge chair on which she sat, so that it rested just shy of the edge of it, just shy of falling straight off it. If someone pulled that lounging chair away from Tischa May’s bottom, she could-not would-not topple onto the floor space. No, her legs indeed could-not would-not budge one centimeter — they would stay put in the most perfect of right angles, as if still propped up by the chair.
By Francesca Alster5 years ago in Horror
Twenty-One Reruns
You will decide to knock on her door the day you turn twenty-one. It will be late at night, or early morning, and you will knock three times. See the door move open along its orbit, just enough to see a black parting. Finger, finger, then a third, poked through the gap, wrapped around the edge of the door. Liftliftlift, then taptaptap, the fingers will dance and you will know the beat and your own fingers will patter against the side of your thighs along to it.
By Francesca Alster5 years ago in Futurism
