Harper Lewis
Bio
I'm a weirdo nerd who’s extremely subversive. I like rocks, incense, and all kinds of witchy stuff. Intrusive rhyme bothers me.
I’m known as Dena Brown to the revenuers and pollsters.
MA English literature, College of Charleston
Stories (296)
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The Spark
My mind keeps traveling back to that night at Stillwater before you married your tragic princess. The two of you were there, down on the other side of the bar, the long end of the L, down at the bottom end. I was with my husband, and I was wearing one of my new dresses. It was blue with a tropical floral pattern spilling down from the bodice into the skirt, uninterrupted by a waistline, sequins sewn around the neckline sparkling onto the shoulders it kept falling off of.
By Harper Lewisabout a month ago in Poets
Letter from Lila. Content Warning.
I held my tongue on your lame phone call, as a mercy to you, but I’ve since learned just what a sick, selfish, vindictive bitch you are, so I’m going to respond. And you can rest assured that I’m going to do more than spit your name at you like it’s the worst thing you can call someone. I hope the name Lila is still on your lips when you leave this world.
By Harper Lewisabout a month ago in Humans
Affair of the Heart. Content Warning.
I had an affair with my first love. These things happen, especially under extenuating circumstances. What were our extenuating circumstances? Our adult daughter was drinking herself to death and putting me through an emotional wood chipper in the process, so I called him.
By Harper Lewisabout a month ago in Humans
Eleven Words. Content Warning.
I can still hear her spitting my name at me like it’s poison, the absolute worst thing you can call anyone, “Lila!” The harshness of her voice slamming down my first syllable, bitterness saturating the timbre of her voice, which for once in my experience lost its contrived Minnie Mouse saccharine. I literally felt her venom through the distance. In truth, it was the shortest, lamest dress-down in the history of the world. She didn’t even call me a whore, and you can bet all of your cryptocurrency that if I found out another woman had been entertaining my husband, she would need therapy by the time I finished with her. But my husband has no need to seek extracurricular experiences, and we have honesty and trust in our marriage, to the degree that when Sharon called (Sam had called me earlier and given me a heads up, warning me that she would be “horrible”), I put her on speakerphone so Matt could hear every word she said. Most of them were Lila. We were on the call for 51 seconds, and she spat my name at me eleven times. I can’t think of a single time that I’ve used someone’s name that many times in conversation with them, even the marathons that leave me staring at the clock in disbelief. Anyway, not only was she hissing and spitting my name like a rabid squirrel, but she failed to take verbal ownership of Sam, didn’t refer to him as her husband, so I knew in the moment that it was curtains for that marriage and probably could have spared him a ton of unnecessary grief and effort trying to reassemble something shattered beyond repair. You see, it wasn’t just that he cheated, it was that he cheated with me.
By Harper Lewisabout a month ago in Fiction
Crushing
I was just a kid when I developed my first crush, but developed is totally the wrong word—crushes don’t develop, they appear, fully-formed and incomprehensible. I still get them, crushes, and I’ve found that I absolutely adore being in crush with someone. My last one hit me a few years ago and hasn’t subsided just yet.
By Harper Lewisabout a month ago in Writers
