M.R. Cameo
Bio
M.R. Cameo generally writes horror, sci-fi, fantasy, and nonfiction, yet enjoys dabbling in different genres. She is currently doing freelance work for various publications.
Stories (59)
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The Bite Beneath the Oak. Runner-Up in Leave the Light On Challenge.
5:30pm In the stillness of Halloween night, the air crackled with beguiling sorcery, and she felt the weight of her father’s cruelty dissolving into the ether. Tonight was her night. No staggering boots scraping against the unfinished Pebble Tec floor. No remotes flying through television screens. No barbarous ramblings directed at her for hours. For once, the house seemed a place a tranquilly.
By M.R. Cameo5 months ago in Fiction
Before the Sky Changed
In the spring of 1986, the trees lining the streets of Prypiat bloomed early. Pale blossoms clung to the boughs like quiet promises, stirring gently in the river breeze. Fourteen-year-old Katya Ivanenko rode her bicycle down Lenina Avenue, her hair braided in twin ropes, her face flushed with the freedom of an early dismissal from school.
By M.R. Cameo6 months ago in Fiction
The Rite of the First Meal. Top Story - June 2025.
The first time I cooked in a kitchen that was mine, I cried over a box of prepackaged rice. Not because it tasted good, it really didn’t, but because I could make it, eat it, and no one would take it from me. No footsteps thudding down the hall. No shouting. No disposal switch flipping like a guillotine. Just me, the steam rising from the pot, and a silence that finally felt soft instead of sharp. There was something about standing there, watching it simmer, the scent beginning to fill the air that made me remember the first time I tried to make it. I was eleven. I hadn’t eaten in days.
By M.R. Cameo7 months ago in Fiction
Gossamer | 404
The fog had teeth. An ominous shroud covering the part had once been filled with joy and hope. It curled in slow, deliberate coils over the cracked asphalt, swallowing signs, trees, and silence itself. Through it, a gate emerged, half rust, half memory. The letters once read “Kaufman Amusements,” but now only a few remained, crooked and glinting.
By M.R. Cameo7 months ago in Fiction
Undying Resilience
Morning came like a ghost, pale, watchful, too quiet. She stepped into its hush, past ruins still whispering her name. Memory clung, soft as cobwebs, bitter as wine. Yet beneath the sorrow, something stirred. A breath. A beginning. The past would haunt, true, but no longer hold. She walked on, unclaimed.
By M.R. Cameo8 months ago in Poets
