Molly Boozell
Bio
a freelance writer/poet trying to make the most of the words bouncing around in my head relentlessly.
Stories (5)
Filter by community
our windowsill
I felt a wave of nausea crash into me, as if I were a pebble on a shoreline. With my eyes cast downward, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze, I walked swiftly into the back room. Sally peered at me over her bifocals as I closed the door behind me, smoke wafting from the cigarette that dangled limply between her red-stained lips. I could feel her watching me over her crossword puzzle as I struggled not to dry heave.
By Molly Boozell2 years ago in Fiction
our windowsill
My shift was, regrettably, eventful. The normal rundown went as well as expected, working in the food industry. I made some decent tips. I even got to make a whipped cream pup cup for a service dog sitting under a booth, something I don’t get to do very often. It was all going smoothly until Thomas walked through the door.
By Molly Boozell3 years ago in Fiction
our windowsill
I woke that morning to an unfamiliar smell. My house, normally lingering with the smell of beeswax and firewood, smelled like coffee beans and vanilla. It wasn’t unpleasant, but I was certainly confused. Still half asleep, I sat up and checked my alarm clock; 5:15 am. I had information floating around in my head as to what that meant, but my groggy brain would not allow me to register it at this time. My body, however, didn’t need permission to know what to do next, and began to get ready for work in an hour.
By Molly Boozell4 years ago in Fiction
our windowsill
“Run me through the plan again.” Crickets chirped softly as the two men huddled in the brush. Fireflies lingered in the muggy air, hanging on the humidity and slowly blinking through the heat. The third man that was with them stood tall, staring at the house a few hundred yards away. His weathered face was still and unreadable, his eyes cast in shadow under the brim of his hat.
By Molly Boozell4 years ago in Fiction
