Tifany Walker
Bio
Just a girl trying to live out her dream of being an author.
Stories (16)
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Unannounced
I wake up in a jolt. There’s a second loud crash coming from my kitchen. I glance at the clock that reads 4:03AM before I grab the metal water bottle on my bedside table and shrug to myself. It’ll have to do. I gently step into the hallway and peer down the stairs. I don’t hear any whispers or footsteps… But I still go down the stairs slowly, making sure I make as little noise as possible. I hear light shuffling, still coming from the kitchen. I grip the water bottle tighter, making sure I won’t accidentally drop it. I slowly peer round the corner into the kitchen to find my previously locked patio door slightly open. And sitting on the stool at the island, I see her. I instantly drop my arms and sigh in contempt. I step into the kitchen, my head slightly tilted to the side in disbelief.
By Tifany Walker2 months ago in Fiction
Donna
As a robot, you were told you would never know what it is like to feel. You had gone 13 years of existence knowing this as fact. 13 years of not feeling. As a Gardy 3.1, you did your duties well, caring for your human’s greenhouse. You’ve done this since you were drawn into existence and forged into a working machine. Over the years you’ve had some parts replaced, a chest plate here, a few leg plates there, and a few arm plates. You’ve just come back from getting a shoulder piece replaced, when you realize that the plants you take care of have gotten duller in colour except for 1, Donna, which seems brighter. Michael, your human owner, likes to name his plants, amongst the dull ones there is Candice, Penelope, Genevieve, etc. You tend to the dull to make sure they aren’t sick or dying, making sure the brighter one, Donna, is tended for separately so as to not catch whatever has the others so dull. You tend to it carefully, trying not to get it near anything you think might infect her. You take notes of how much water you feed her, and how much sunlight she gets in the day. You nurse the others back to their natural colouration, but Donna stays bright next to them. You begin starting your nighttime routine later and later. Michael starts noticing this behavior.
By Tifany Walkerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room
It’s dark. Your mind is foggy and you can’t see. You know you’re stuck in a room somewhere. There has to be a way out. There’s a drip, drip, dripping of water. You take a few steps toward it, your hand outstretched before you, reaching for the wall that you will eventually come into contact with. It feels wet. Slimy. Stones. A room made of stone? Your eyes are adjusting slowly. You see the outline of your fingers. You touch the wet stone again. Mossy. The liquid on the rocks… What is that? Sticky. Your fingers feel sticky. You bend your neck to meet your hand halfway to allow yourself to smell the liquid. You pull back slightly, before your nose reaches the substance on your fingers. Sniff… Sniff… Metallic. Sniff. Your eyes adjust slightly more. You start to notice the dark and light colours. You look at the liquid, it’s dark on your fingertips. You graze the surrounding stones with your hand, trying to feel for more of the liquid covering your fingers. You hear it dripping, there should be more; there should be a source. You feel a slow stream coming from the top corner. You notice it’s a small ledge giving a bit more space in a cramped room with no windows and as of yet, no door. You start tracing the walls following the path to feel for the door that is bound to be there. You count the corners of the room to give yourself a point of reference for when you’ve gone around the whole space. One, two, three, four… One, two, three, four… No, this can’t be. One... Two… Three… Four. No door? No door. Your breath hitches in your throat. It’s okay, don’t panic. The ledge! Get up on the ledge. Maybe there’s an opening up there. Ok, you can climb this. Easy peasy right – right? At least the stones aren’t flush with each other. You grab hold of the ledge at the tip of your arms. At least it’s low enough to grab from the ground. You start feeling for a good place for your first foot. You push yourself off the ground. Easy enough. Now you just need to get high enough to be able to pull yourself up with your arms. You feel for a good stone to put your other foot. You start pushing up to do it again with your first foot. You slip. Hanging onto the ledge is the only reason you don’t fall backwards, and instead press against the stones. This - is going to be difficult. You try again, keeping notes of the stones you step on in case you slip again. You slip again. Third time’s a charm. You grip the ledge again. You end up high enough up on the wall to pull yourself up with your arms. Using the remaining stones to give yourself a small boost. You make it to the floor of the ledge. Exhausted and warm, you lay on the cool stone staring up. You turn away from where you just pulled yourself up. Hoping to find an exit. An opening of some sorts. The floor is wet. The same type of liquid that was streaming down the wall. You pay no mind to it as you notice a tunnel. A way out. It’s a tight fit, but you start crawling anyway. Light. It’s dim, but you start getting excited. That’s how you get out of here. As you get closer, it gets brighter and brighter. Bright enough for you to notice the liquid on your hands is red. Blood?
By Tifany Walkerabout a year ago in Fiction
Queen: Vanished
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. This would be a terrible precursor for the events to come, but the prophecy being as it was, and the Seers having predicted this very moment made it so the people were prepared. Those who wished not to be stuck in a forcefield of magic until the prophesied savior arrived had left several weeks prior, preferring the long arduous journey to the next kingdom than not being able to venture out or even communicate with those outside the barrier. Those who stayed, understood that life would without a doubt change, with the trade market being stopped, and those outside the kingdom knew nothing about the Queen vanishing, nor the magic used to curse the lands. The Queen had been prepared and thus prepared her subjects. She had stationed several guards at the entrances of her kingdom to prevent outsiders from entering her cursed lands. It had been prophesied that any and all who sought to leave after she had gone would suffer for all eternity, unable to release the suffering, not by re-entering, not even with death. But no Seer had been able to predict what would happen if someone were to enter the barrier. The Queen would not risk it. She knew that if people were to find out about her disappearance, they would be vulnerable and adjacent kingdoms would attack, not knowing of their curse. She would not have that happen. She created a Council to rule in her stead, while they waited for their savior.
By Tifany Walkerabout a year ago in Fiction
Cumulonimbus
Cumulonimbus Ominous and Thundering Lightning sent to us
By Tifany Walkerabout a year ago in Poets
Raining
Rain cloud overhead Crying up above Releasing its tears
By Tifany Walkerabout a year ago in Poets
Rain
Cloud of rain above Shedding its tears over us Releasing pressure
By Tifany Walkerabout a year ago in Poets
10 Seconds. Content Warning.
“Hey! Watch it!” “Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing.” “Look ou—“my body is sent flying. (One) Everything is slow. As if time was on hold for me to truly grasp the severity of the situation I’ve been put in when I look next to me and see my own body smashing through the windshield.
By Tifany Walker2 years ago in Fiction
A Night Lost
Flora’s head is pounding. She blinks adjusting to the daylight. She’s looking at her open palms, hands bloodied, opening and closing her fingers as if trying to regain feeling in them after being numbed. The feeling of a butterknife jabbing her brain. She doubles up clutching her temples. Ahh! Ngh! Jeez… What happened last night?
By Tifany Walker3 years ago in Fiction
Tally
I, II, III, IIII. Seven hundred and thirty-three days. Seven hundred and thirty-three days trapped in a cell, in a cave, isolated from everyone. Years of being held captive. Seven hundred and thirty-three days of not being able to talk to anyone. Seven hundred and thirty-three days of not having a proper meal. Seven hundred and thirty-tree days of counting the days until I am released from this prison. I keep track of the days by engraving tallies in the stone where I’m being held. I keep track by the small opening at the top of the room. It’s not big enough to be a window but it’s enough to see the sunlight and have a semblance of fresh air. Water is brought to me once a week in a bucket. I found out only after I had drunk it all that it was one week exactly to get a new bucket of water. The food is once a day but enough for 3 portions if rationed correctly; this too was only after I finished everything that I realized it was the case. Seven hundred and thirty-three days of rationing food and water. I don’t know how much longer of this I can take. It’s torture not knowing when I’ll be free. I don’t even know who’s behind my captivity, who is holding me. All I know is that I’m not the first one to be held here. I know this because there were marks and drawings on the floors and walls when I got here. Sometimes my captive will take me outside, where he lets me bath under a waterfall of sorts. He keeps me chained to a tree when he takes me there. He trusts that I won’t try to escape; he's right, I won’t try anything, I have no need to escape. I deserve this treatment. What I’ve done is much too horrible to ever be let free. The conditions of my captivity might be horrible, but I manage. I get fed every day and I have enough water to keep me going. I have regular bathing periods and they can last up to a whole day; he goes hunting when I bathe, sometimes he catches something quickly, other times he doesn’t get anything. But that doesn’t affect the meals I get. He usually goes hunting when there’s still some of the last hunt’s meat left. I might be a prisoner, but I’m taken care of well enough to be sustained. Seven hundred and thirty-five days. Yesterday’s bath day was refreshing. I keep counting the days, even though I’m not entirely sure when I’ll be released from this prison. It helps keep me sane to keep track of the days. Sometimes, I’ll ask him for the date, just to keep things interesting, even though he never answers, I still ask. Other times, I’ll even ask how long I’ll be held captive for, just to keep things interesting for him, and me, mostly me though, since he doesn’t answer. Seven hundred and ninety-two days. It’s bath day. I spend most of my time in the water. It feels cool on my skin. He comes back right before dark. When he brings me back to my makeshift cell, I notice my tallies are gone. All of them, vanished, no longer engraved into the walls. What happened to them? How did the stone get so smooth after my endless scraping of the walls? I turn around to ask him what had happened but notice he’s vanished, just like my tallies. I notice the door is left ajar. This would never happen. He’s way too meticulous to forget to close and lock the door. Is this possibly the end of my sentence? Is my captivity finished? I don’t even know where I am, much less how to get out of here. I should wait it out. I was doing fine here, food every day, and a good supply of water. So I’ll start again: I, II, III.
By Tifany Walker4 years ago in Fiction
