A hobby writer and aspiring novelist with a far too active imagination that she wishes to share.
It used to be that whenever someone spotted a tarantula, they would point at it in horror and scream, "Kill it with fire!" That's a little harder to pull off when your enemy is a ten-foot-tall, hairy, eight-legged, half-human half-spider monstrosity with venomous, twelve-inch mandibles strong enough to mash an average human adult into unrecognizable pulp within three minutes.
By Netti4 years ago in Fiction
Hoarfrost glitters on the reedy cattails swaying to and fro to the tune of the gentle winter breeze, little rainbows beaming off the pristine surface of the secret pond hidden in the center of the forest. Bluejays scream high in the tree branches while wood mice shuffle around warily among the gray detritus littering the ground, ears alert for predators. The grass here is thick and green despite the frost; the snowdrops weep in great clumps, and colorful winter pansies huddle together in the shade. At the head of the pond lies a young pear tree, bare of fruit.
The clouds roll in without warning, gray like the storms, crackling with ominous green lightning that strikes against the ground in fierce, sizzling whips. The sun blots out, the winds pick up and howl. A raging beast of moisture and thunder gallops through the skies, unimpeded, each step echoing like a sonic boom.
Every day, I see a man on the corner of Kukko Way while I'm driving to work. He looks like your typical homeless man: threadbare clothes, unkempt gray hair and beard, deep wrinkles lining the corners of his eyes and mouth.
Sylvia Sterling, a newly-minted "real adult" of twenty-one years old, doesn't spend her big birthday bar-crawling with her friends and getting smashed seven ways to Sunday.
By Netti5 years ago in Fiction
I have a confession to make: I hate chocolate cake. Gasp, why, that's preposterous! Someone out there, maybe even you, declares in outrage, because who doesn't like chocolate cake?
"Do you remember, darling?" Cold fingers skim over my cheek, and I flinch back. Immediately, by the way his eyes darken with rage, I know that was the wrong move to make. I try to brace myself, but that doesn't make his retaliation hurt any less.
The acrid tang of fresh cigarette smoke fills your lungs as you step out of the subway station, mixing with the horrid stench of butchered fish blowing in from the harbor. You cough and slam the bottom of your woolen scarf over your nose in a futile attempt to block it out, hurrying away from the exit, eyes watering as you try not to breathe in the toxic fumes.
By Netti5 years ago in Feast
One, two, three, four; the time has come to even the score, Five, six, seven, eight; tell me who should bear this weight, Nine, ten, eleven, twelve; there are places where you should ne'er dwell, Where thirteen is the death knell, the Devil's Child shall rise to conquer fate.
Keep your head down and don't make a sound. There are eyes and ears everywhere. Eyes from the indestructible security cameras swiveling upon whitewashed walls, ears from the tiny microphones embedded in every slave collar clasped around our bare throats. There is no such thing as privacy anymore, not since the incident of 2095—Callagan's Rebellion, led by Reese Callagan, an immoral anarchist who set the White House aflame, opened fire in the Senate, and threw the whole country into chaos.
