Heather Little
Stories (3)
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The Gilded Frame
The girl in the photo on her wall blinked. Ava froze mid-step, sloshing tea across the carpet. Her eyes locked on the frame. The image looked the same: rusted gold trim, a colourful yet faded garden, a swing dangling from nowhere. And the girl, maybe eight, with porcelain skin, green eyes, a dirty pinkish-red dress, and corkscrew curls.
By Heather Little6 months ago in Fiction
Daymare
What is that infernal beeping? If it’s your alarm clock again, Simon, I swear I’m going to smash it with a hammer. All I wanted was to sleep in without noise. These thoughts ran through my head as I lay in my cozy bed. Sleeping in on a Saturday morning, something I rarely get to do; it would have been nice had I not been jarred awake by such an atrocious racket.
By Heather Little5 years ago in Horror
Retribution
This useless vessel which was once my body, contains some semblance of what I used to be yet it hangs ineffective below my head, numb and lifeless, immobile perhaps due to cold or lack of movement; conceivably both. There's a change in the air, an icy nip not there a few short days ago. I know this because I can sense the goosebumps on my uncovered extremities, the change in the air that surrounds my motionless form. Days have gone by, days which travel into nights so very slowly; on dark wings of sooty cruelty. Nights with darkness so deep and inky black it smothers me, sitting on my face like a wet cloth, snug and clingy. Suffocating.
By Heather Little5 years ago in Horror
