Emily Finhill
Bio
I'm just a tormented spinster authoress, trapped in the life of a happy suburban mom.
Stories (18/0)
Frozen
It was warm when time stopped working. Eudosia remembered that, later. It was warm, and the air smelled like an intoxicating blend of jasmine and melting popsicle. She was laying, as usual, on her back and in her backyard, riffling her fingers across the overgrown grass and enjoying the particular way the sun pulsed behind the shifting leaves. And then time stopped. Everything stopped, all around her. The leaves stopped rustling. The breeze ceased breezing. The black ants froze their eternal march up to their nest and back again.
By Emily Finhill11 days ago in Fiction
Meltdown: Chapter Three
*originally published on Medium* The room is illuminated only by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. I’m so cold, lines of sharp and cold crossing to hold me down to the chair beneath me. There is a table in front of me, familiar, like in the room where doctors with no faces ask me questions with no answers, but the room is not white. It is not bright. It is not sanitized. The air tastes thick, as if it has already been breathed a hundred times.
By Emily Finhillabout a year ago in Fiction
Meltdown: Chapter One
*Originally published on Medium* I remember how it all began. With anger, hunger, and hate. Even when I couldn’t remember my own name, I remembered the anger, sparked by a playground tyrant with cold eyes. Fanned by the words they wrote on our house, and the things they called my father. Anger that roared so hot, it began to feel good, burning away every other feeling. I fed the hate to the anger and the anger grew stronger, consuming everything, creating a safe barrier of ash around me.
By Emily Finhillabout a year ago in Fiction