Emily Cummings
Bio
Stories (9/0)
A Stranger in the Clearing
The sun hung low in the sky, beams of light sparkling between the tree branches. A pinkish-orange glow painted the horizon and the clouds above, as though their brilliant white had been dyed by wildflowers. The color would fade to blackness soon enough, but, for now, a few precious minutes of glory remained to be enjoyed. The young elm delighted in the feeling of evening sunlight on its leaves. Of all the sunlights, evening was its favorite, dusk in particular. Greater trees thrived in the afternoon brilliance, when the burning heat fed their towering forms and cast dappled light through their innumerable leaves. For the elm, afternoon often became cold; the sunlight above grew weaker with every layer of leaves it passed through, and by the time it hit the elm’s branches, it might as well have been the dying breath of a honey bee. The elm could feel it, but reached no deeper than the surface.
By Emily Cummingsabout a month ago in Fiction
- Top Story - February 2024
The HouseTop Story - February 2024
The house wasn’t a home to any human. Anyone who’d ever been brave enough to venture into those woods knew that much, at least. But that wasn’t many people. The woods were pitch black in parts, and somehow seemed darker half of the time. No road led straight, and even the most accomplished trackers who’d tried to investigate the house came out of the woods days later, disoriented and battered, with no idea where they had been. It seemed the only way to find the house was by accident. Those who’d seen it were children, or teenagers, or sleepwalkers, or those so sad they’d simply wandered into the trees. The house called to them, and they answered. And sometimes, they came back.
By Emily Cummings3 months ago in Fiction
The Peddler-Woman
The peddler-woman sells things that cannot be bought, and everyone knows it. Others in the market sell beautiful things; sweaters and scarves, cutting boards and cooking pots, wine bottles and woven rugs. The crafters sew, carve, weld, sculpt, or brew all they sell, each to perfection. The peddler-woman wordlessly wheels her cart through the snow-dusted square; perched perilously on her shelves are storms and sunshine, long days and late nights, birdsongs and battle cries, quick thoughts and quiet musings. She hides her face behind heavy scarves and low hats of no particular color, but her eyes gleam through even the thickest snowfalls. I should know.
By Emily Cummings3 months ago in Fiction
Cookies in the End
As Marja opened it, the cabinet exhaled a gentle breath of dust. She had not touched the cookbooks in far too long, she knew. Cooking had brought her joy a year ago, but in the last few months, the recipes had tasted differently. No matter what she tried, what spices she added, how she changed the temperature, the dishes just tasted ever so slightly wrong. Not bad, but wrong. But today, she somehow knew that she could do it. The stakes were high enough today. She wanted her children to eat cookies today.
By Emily Cummings2 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - April 2021
In Dire Need of ForgettingTop Story - April 2021
Rosalie Evers hated restaurants like this. Everyone knows the type; white tablecloth, red carpet, yellow candles, and a golden chandelier glistening slightly too high for proper appreciation. Sitting at her own uncomfortably crisp table, she sighed and pulled out her phone.
By Emily Cummings3 years ago in Humans