S.N. Evans
Bio
Christian, Writer of Fiction and Fantasy; human. I have been turning Caffeine into Words since 2007. If you enjoy my work, please consider liking, following, reposting on Social Media, or tipping. <3
God Bless!
Stories (78)
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Memphis
Lorali paced her living room, waiting for them to arrive. She and her husband had received a call early in the morning, but they had yet to give her much information. She hoped to get more once the social worker arrived. She hurriedly scrubbed out the coffee pot, more for something to do than for coffee so late. Her door bed rang as she was poised to pour in the coffee grounds. Pouring the grounds in quickly, she napped the lid shut and flipped the switch to start it brewing. Wiping her hands on the sides of her jeans, she moved toward the door and opened it.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Realizations in the Slime Rain
Gazing out the window, it was another messy and dreary day. Though the people did their best to extrapolate weather patterns, they were still determining when it would rain. This rain differed from your typical rain, not the kind of rain that falls in your world or mine. This rain comes down in thick spatters that cling to every surface. These globules slip down windows and stick in trees, to rooves, and on walls. They are beholden to the whims of the winds. Eliza watched as one such thick, slobbery globule flowed over her car.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
The Process of Art
Standing before the fresh canvas, he took out his sketchbook and brainstormed. While in art school, he was indebted to the professor’s prompts. Now, faced with the blank canvas stretched before him, he felt as empty and blank as the canvas. Groaning, he pushed and rolled his shoulders. Taking his sketchbook with him, he wandered the college art halls, wondering what prompts lay behind them. But none of those designs spoke to him. He switched from examining color expression and composition to patterns and design. Scruffling his hands through his hair, he felt uninspired. It had already been a couple of weeks since he finished anything noteworthy. How had he composed those pieces?
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Eternal Wanderer
Pausing, the haggard wanderer hooked his gnarled staff in the crook of his arm, pulling a hefty tome from his waist where it had been chained; he opened it, making a few marks. He did not have a pencil or pen; instead, he used the cracked fingernail of his index finger as a nib and his blood for ink. Once he completed the note, he closed the book and dropped it back to his side. There is no more time to pause as his feet automatically continue his trudge. Muttering to himself, he sings worship songs, prayers, and supplication to his God. Though he has no quarter or home, nowhere to knock the dust from his callused feet or rest his heavy head, he does know his God. The dense forests, high mountains, deep valleys, and seas pass all the same as he passes. As everything erodes, the wanderer remains.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Typewriter and the Author
Shafts of light streamed in through the wide window, warming the mahogany-stained desk and casting a spotlight on the ancient typewriter. Its black and red ribbons are brittle and crumbling, its alphanumeric keys eroded beneath decades of keystrokes. A yellowing sheet of paper remains wound around its return bar. What is written on the page has long since passed from the typewriter’s recollection. He had memorized it once, but now all he could recall were the final keystrokes as several remained jammed. The author had neglected to repair him, so here he lay, gathering rust and dust.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Lingering Morning
Sipping a mug of your favorite hot beverage, you debate venturing out. You admire the snow’s beauty from afar– behind a double-paned glass wall. The hum of your heater kicks on, reminding you of the cold outside. The snow shows no sign of stopping and has already piled up in the driveway.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Snowy Dragon
The bitter winter wind blew through the pass, shooting fat snowflakes across the ravine’s craggy peaks. Water seeps from tree roots through the cracks in the rock in icy waterfalls. No creature in its right mind would be out in the flurry. Instead, they nestle in small caves, nooks, and crannies, anywhere shielded from the cold. Inside the snow-wreathed mouth of a small cave lays a creature upon a bed of gold. She is long and slender with a white-scaled body protectively wrapped around a pile of gold. Her stomach growls; she has not eaten in days, but will not budge. She cannot make the same mistake she made last year.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Praying for Sunshine
The small battery-powered FM radio notifies us that many powerlines are down. This is the cold snap of the century. We don’t know how long it will be out, and we are in a rural area. Bundling up, we walked a quarter of a mile to my grandmother’s sturdy foundation house. Where we rely on her ancient castiron stove to keep us warm and cook, fed only as much wood as necessary to keep the temperature barely warm enough to be comfortable. We’ve put quilts over the doorway to the hall and door outside to keep in as much of the warmth as possible. Hunkering down, we wait for the pot of snow to heat up and boil for water and coffee to percolate.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Vanished
I do not know the time or date when I was first misplaced, but I know where creativity occurs is my home— this is not it. The place of creativity is bright most of the day and dark at night. This place is only dark but not completely dark. I can observe the palace of creativity through a gap wide enough to slide through. If I had a voice, I would have called out or screamed; if I could independently move, I would have returned where I belong– but I have neither. Though I started counting the passage of time, the days and nights bled together. Every day, my hope of retrieval diminished until only my memories of the time before and the chill of this resting place remained.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
On the subject of Chaos-Crows
I am S.N. Evans; you know me here on Vocal as a writer and prospective author, but I am a woman of many hats and interests. I want to talk to you about art. More accurately, my best friend EJ and I created the art as the two crows of Chaos-Crows, a Redbubble shop we started this fall.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Art
