Nines Hearst
Bio
Writer. A coyote in human clothing. Collector of red lighters. Profile art by Brian Luong.
Achievements (1)
Stories (10)
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These Bridles Are Our Own
"There weren't always dragons in the Valley." The Wrangler fiddled with the brim of his hat, shifting his weight from one foot to another as if the dirt beneath him compensated for his own discomfort. "Until recently, we were only permitted to breed 'em in the Northern regions. Real remote, like."
By Nines Hearst 4 years ago in Fiction
Glass of Red, Wrong Address . First Place in Graveyard Smash Challenge.
Darling creature, sweet human, I think you have found yourself at the wrong soirée. Do not panic, my love. You cannot disguise the beating of your heart from me. It has been the percussive soundtrack to every meal I have enjoyed since the Industrial Revolution. But you have nothing to worry about, I swear upon the earth of the grave. We are people of more... refined sensibilities.
By Nines Hearst 4 years ago in Beat
Wrenditions of Desire
I kneel by the base of a frozen pond, my mic hovering over the ice. Well, we’ve debated quite viciously as to whether or not it’s a pond—it’s sort of on that ambiguous scale where it could be called a pond or a lake. Which may seem pedantic, but trust me, when you run out of things to do out here, the small stuff starts to matter. I’ve never seen it in the summer, which might help settle the dispute. It’s only ever been a frozen expanse of cracked white-blue plates.
By Nines Hearst 4 years ago in Fiction
Bull's Eye
I hold up a marble to the candle on my desk. I found it a while ago, before I was placed under what is essentially house arrest. The flame flickers and dances in the glass, as if it has been captured in the little orb. In the dark, it is illuminated like a miniature sun, a yellow aura. The other marble, its twin, is in my pocket. This is what I have been reduced to, playing with beads in the near-blackness. No phone, no TV, no books, no games. The lack of stimuli is agonizing, even more so than the actual pain.
By Nines Hearst 4 years ago in Fiction
Grief is a Demolitions Expert; Death Does Not Knock When It Visits
These days, I just feel tired. Grief demands a lot of you—things that I don’t always have to give and would rather not relinquish anyway—and eventually it eats away at so much of your core you feel like a tree rotting from the inside out, ever in danger of succumbing to gravity’s call.
By Nines Hearst 5 years ago in Poets
