Natalie Scivally
Bio
I'm just here to throw my writing at the wall until something sticks-- and hopefully stays long enough to grow a fungus that'll eat away at the wall and let me break into the industry :) Welcome to my page.
Stories (8)
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The Billionaire’s Cats
Jasper's hands got sweaty when he was nervous. Harper used to call him "slippery hands." Not a good nickname, but at least Harper tried. Jasper wiped his palms down his pant legs and inched forward, hugging the wall. He approached the corner of the hallway and wiped his hands again. Harper was supposed to be with him. It was Jasper's first job; he was supposed to have a trainer with him. Instead, he was alone; a nervous trainee with a gun expected to kill a rancid-smelling billionaire. Jasper pulled the collar of his jacket over his mouth and did his best to not breathe through his nose. How could one person smell this bad? Good grief. Finally reaching the corner, he slowly pushed his head into the hallway. The first thing he saw was the rotting corpse of a tabby cat. Ah, the cat was rancid not the billionaire. How long had that thing been lying there? Didn't this guy have maids or something? The hallway was empty, so Jasper made the dash to the large gilded door on the opposite wall. This part was all about speed, not stealth. So he tore the gun from his pocket and kicked the door open. He was standing gun up legs set wide and slightly bent when he was faced with what was in the bedroom: another dead cat. Other than the second carcass, the room was empty. Was he too late? Was the billionaire already long gone? Nope, Jasper rushed the rest of the way to the cat, crouched, and waited for the footsteps in the hall to stop. Crap, he may have to kill someone after all. As the noise got closer, he got more tense. Then suddenly whoever was walking down the hall reached the door frame. It was the billionaire, and he spotted Jasper immediately. Jasper threw up his gun. Could he really shoot him?
By Natalie Scivally2 years ago in Fiction
Ultimatum
I woke up and everything was too loud, too bright, too in my face, too real. I tapped the light switch quick, with one finger. Click. That sound was okay; it was chosen. Everything else was unwelcome. I clicked the bathroom light on, again quick, with one finger. Then the closet light. Click, click. I stood in my closet. I needed to pick out an outfit for school, and soon because I had to leave in 20 minutes. I could see all my clothes. My head knew what shirts went with what pants, but I don’t think my hands did because they didn’t move. What do I wear. What do I wear. What do I wear. What do I wear. What do I wear. I ended up with a teal top and dark plaid pants. My head knew those would work, my hands weren’t sure, but they had no choice but to obey. The mirror that usually told me I looked cute, was too silent today. Too loud, too bright, too in my face, too real, too silent. I spun around and looked again. My head knew I looked pretty, but I don’t think my eyes did. I was ready to go, and my brother took several more minutes. So I sat in the car tapping my foot. Tap. Please, Sam. Tap. I don’t want to be late. Tap tap. Hurry, Sam. Tap tap. I can’t tap be tap tap late tap tap tap tap tap tap.
By Natalie Scivally4 years ago in Poets
Tricycle
“Ding, ding!” Ian screamed while he pedaled his trike down the sidewalk. He’d told mom he was in desperate need of a bell to warn pedestrians out of his way, but the best she could do was add it to the Christmas wish list. The sidewalk sloped and Ian sped up unwillingly. He screamed his dings louder to compensate for the increased danger and tried to slow himself down with his heels. Mom would be angry at him for ruining his shoes, but this was a matter of safety! The friction created by his rubber soles wasn’t doing the job fast enough. He was headed right for the street corner; a sharp curve of death. Ian held his breath and leaned uphill as he turned. His dings turned to cries of panic as his right wheel left the ground. The trike skidded right and the momentum carried it into a concrete street lamp, hitting it broadside. Actually, more of Ian than the trike hit the concrete. As this happened the right wheel of the trike came slamming down and snapped off the body.
By Natalie Scivally4 years ago in Fiction
Purple Glasses in Walmart
I heard once that it’s impossible to read in a dream. Reading involves a separate part of the brain than what is active during dreaming, apparently. Last night I dreamt about walking around a Walmart. I strolled through the cereal aisle skimming the shelves with my hand. A box of cheerios crashed to the floor in front of me before I even touched it. My mother used to exclusively buy cheerios. She always insisted they were better for our “growing bodies” than other cereals. I insisted they gave me trauma flashbacks. In the seventh grade my eldest brother and his brute friends force fed me a shoelace that had been soaked in rain that morning; it dried crunchy, and tasted almost like cheerios. Bending down to pick up the box, I noticed a rip in the side. I ripped it all the way open. There was a sketch of dinosaur bones on the inside of the box, scribbled in thick black sharpie. And next to the drawing were instructions... that I could read. This was the moment I knew it was not a dream. It was a vision. There was a dinosaur buried under Walmart and I had to find it.
By Natalie Scivally4 years ago in Fiction
Thought Train Stations
Lots of writers like to let ideas sit and grow in their head before they really give it a solid word shape. This seems like a great approach. It allows ideas to explore all the train of thought stations and find the perfect one. However I have no idea if it actually works well; I’ve never used it. I have to write as I’m thinking because once a thought has passed, I ain’t thinking it again. That takes too much energy and I need to save as much as possible in order to survive the life sucking public education system.
By Natalie Scivally4 years ago in Humans
