Paige Graffunder
Bio
Paige is a published author and a project professional in the Seattle area. They are focused on interpersonal interactions, poetry, and social commentary.
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Find my books on Amazon.com and at Barnes and Noble.
Stories (108)
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An Open Letter To Bruce Harrell
Dear Bruce, Fuck you. Fuck you personally, directly, and in particular. Fuck nearly everything you stand for. Fuck your crappy campaign ads to your crappier policies. You are the exact reason that no one wants a democrat. You're basically a republican, except the lite version, not the version that requires a monthly subscription.
By Paige Graffunder4 years ago in The Swamp
Here Lies Lillith
Lillith stood sullenly in front of 5209 W Toska St. Aside from her life, it was the most depressing thing she had ever seen. She fished in the pocket of her jacket for the keys and trudged through the rain to the steps down to the basement level. As she stepped off the stair to the landing at the bottom, her foot submerged up to her ankle in icy water. She looked down, the drain in the bottom of the landing had been blocked by a piece of refuse. She stood there, staring at her foot in the probably filthy water, the cold moisture flooding her ruined sneaker, considered kicking the snarl of garbage away from the drain, but ultimately did nothing. She used the first key, a silver modern key to unlock the outside door, then stepped inside the damp bare concrete hallway. She walked past three or four door ways, one marked laundry, and the others with faded numbers stenciled on them, until she reached apartment 3. She held up the keys and selected the brass antique style key and slid it into the ancient looking lock. She turned it one full turn, counter clockwise, and heard the lock disengage. She grabbed the door knob and pushed inside the apartment. Her new home. She felt along the hallway for the light switch. When she flicked it on, the low hum of electricity carried through wires that needed replacing accompanied the dim awakening of an exposed lightulb overhead. As she closed the door, the light flickered, but remained on. She walked into the small space. There were scuffed and long neglected hardwood floors, and to the right a small kitchen, with enough space to put an even smaller table, and to the left a bathroom with an astoundingly intimidating clawfoot tub, a pedestal sink, and a toilet with a patched crack in the tank. She regarded these things without expression or reflection, and moved forward into the space. She saw that the living room had a large, dusty, and possibly prehistoric faded rug laid out in the middle of the room. “That’s homey” she said to no one in particular. She turned to her left and nudged the door to the bedroom open with her soaked foot. The bedroom was small but not cramped, with a large, battered and antique looking wardrobe against the far wall. Probably a leave behind from the former tenant who couldn’t be bothered to carry it up the stairs.
By Paige Graffunder4 years ago in Fiction
