Misty Rombach
Bio
Stories (5)
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Faith
I first began writing around the age of 12. I was in 7th grade, and the overwhelming feelings and emotions that accompany becoming a teen were becoming apparent. Naturally, I channeled those feelings and put them on paper, creating a number of angsty poems and short stories.
By Misty Rombach2 years ago in Poets
Transplanted
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I imagine the same could be said about this place. A desert of reddish-orange rolls on for what seems like an eternity. Flattened earth with swirling dust clouds, this is my daily view. Today is day six in this joke of a reality, and before that, details are hazy.
By Misty Rombach3 years ago in Fiction
The Way Out
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The steady glow illuminated the leaves and branches that had encroached after years of neglect. Though the candle shown brightly, nothing could be seen through the cold, murky glass when peering in. It was as if the light was swallowed up the second it left the flame. Nonetheless, the radiance that spilled out into the forest beckoned out to anyone that would answer its call. Then, seemingly right on time, she emerged from the decaying brush and ancient trees. Hikers in this area were few these days, and though the cabin stood in a state beyond repair, the flame greeted her almost like a pet would its master, warm and welcoming. After treading through rain and chill, shelter in any form was too inviting to pass up. The sun had retired, and the sounds of the night had come alive. Wearily, she knocked on the door. No answer. Perhaps the owner was out, or, judging by the state of this place, maybe they were long gone. But who lit the candle? Maybe another hiker had passed through and had absent-mindedly left it burning. She tried the door, which gave a crack and groaned as it stubbornly opened. One large room appeared before her as the light flooded across the floor. A small table, a bed, and a worn wooden chair were illuminated not only by the candle, but a crackling fireplace as well. Though fairly primitive, it seemed to be in decent condition. Not even a layer of dust had settled since the last occupants had gone. Confused yet exhausted, she made the decision to attempt to sleep. Hoping to avoid a Goldie Locks situation, she locked the door thinking that anyone returning home would wake her upon entry. At least then, she could explain herself and her late-night visit. The bed was small and the frame rickety, but it offered more comfort than the floor of the forest, and she was quickly dozing before more thoughts could intrude.
By Misty Rombach4 years ago in Fiction
The Way Out
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The steady glow illuminated the leaves and branches that had encroached after years of neglect. Though the candle shown brightly, nothing could be seen through the cold, murky glass when peering in. It was as if the light was swallowed up the second it left the flame. Nonetheless, the radiance that spilled out into the forest beckoned out to anyone that would answer its call. Then, seemingly right on time, she emerged from the decaying brush and ancient trees. Hikers in this area were few these days, and though the cabin stood in a state beyond repair, the flame greeted her almost like a pet would its master, warm and welcoming. After treading through rain and chill, shelter in any form was too inviting to pass up. The sun had retired, and the sounds of the night had come alive. Wearily, she knocked on the door. No answer. Perhaps the owner was out, or, judging by the state of this place, maybe they were long gone. But who lit the candle? Maybe another hiker had passed through and had absent-mindedly left it burning. She tried the door, which gave a crack and groaned as it stubbornly opened. One large room appeared before her as the light flooded across the floor. A small table, a bed, and a worn wooden chair were illuminated not only by the candle, but a crackling fireplace as well. Though fairly primitive, it seemed to be in decent condition. Not even a layer of dust had settled since the last occupants had gone. Confused yet exhausted, she made the decision to attempt to sleep. Hoping to avoid a Goldie Locks situation, she locked the door thinking that anyone returning home would wake her upon entry. At least then, she could explain herself and her late-night visit. The bed was small and the frame rickety, but it offered more comfort than the floor of the forest, and she was quickly dozing before more thoughts could intrude.
By Misty Rombach4 years ago in Fiction
