Killian

Joined January 2021

18 stories

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Words... Trees... People... Life

Achievements (3)

Stories (18)

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Sinister
Sandy shores, sleepy sound Starry skies, seas surround - Slumber sweet, sanity Satin sheet, staticky - Supine state, slipping slow
By Killian3 years ago in Poets
Cloven. Top Story - July 2022.
Bones warmed, Summer’s heat Head swimming, too sick to eat Inhale, exhale. Pray. ***
By Killian3 years ago in Poets
The Next Phase of Human Evolution
You may be wondering what the NIP (Neural Interface Project) is. I wish I could tell you plainly, but what can I say? Legally, very little, as it turns out. But I would like to tell you what it was… and what it was meant to be.
By Killian4 years ago in Futurism
Nannuck - Grief Giver
~*~ My mother was a brilliant artist. In my earliest memories, I see her paint-splattered and smiling. From the mural on my bedroom wall to the still life in our dining room, the house bore her essence in every brush stroke. But no painting captured and retained more of her than Nannuck. Nannuck was her oil masterpiece, the product of nearly two years’ labor. The canvas drank her up like the cactus hoards water in the desert. What she created was incomparable. The painting was dark, with the illusion of light hidden just behind it. Lake Nannuck stretched nearly the length of the five foot canvas with only hints of the shores and wooded banks around the edges. The real substance was in the center of the lake. Her subtle impasto technique added a depth that was disconcerting to behold. So many shades of gray and charcoal intertwined to create a living entity, that lake. There, beyond the fog that appeared to be rolling gently over the water - there were the shadows.~*~
By Killian4 years ago in Horror
Hues of a Person
It’s no color at all, but it’s the first that I saw. White light much too bright for blue skies. The reds and the yellows paled before the dawn
By Killian5 years ago in Poets
To Hell in a Handbasket
Grammy died when I was nine. We were close; I remember that. She was my dad’s and Uncle Ed’s mom, and about the nearest thing I ever had to a mom myself. Towards the end, she wasn’t quite all there. In those last months, she would stare for hours out the window or at the blank television, raving on and on about how the world was “going to hell in a handbasket.” Even at nine, I knew that Grammy was not a credible source for world news. I knew better than to take her words to heart, but there was always a murmuring sort of uneasiness in the pit of my stomach at the end of our visits. I wasn’t even sure what a handbasket was, but I never could quite shake the feeling that Grammy might be right about it.
By Killian5 years ago in Criminal