As a writer, many of my stories start from a tiny little seed of an idea planted in my brain. Imagine these little tidbits, coming from various places, fermenting and growing in the depths of my brain until they start to germinate and sprout into something creepy. That's how my story, Flowers for the Dead, came to be. HOW IT STARTED One of my favorite things to include in my stories? Superstitions. Folk Lore. Strange and arcane beliefs that inspire people to do some curious things. Some of these ideas seem not so strange. But others? They make you wonder ho[...]
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fiction
2 Hello, good day, bonjour. It's been many months since we chatted last. I took a much-needed hiatus from everything excepting real life -- hence my absence -- but as things go, I'm back like a bad case of herrrrr--- herpy derpies? Bunny rabbits. It's been long enough that you ought to suffer a re-introduction from me. So I'll keep this brief, sparing those who are familiar already: Hello! My name is Kira. I write low-key horror fiction and dark urban fantasy for young adults, I'm pre-query on my first novel, and I'm a senior-level graphic designer.[...]
Once upon a time when this creepy lady first met her honeybunch (hereafter known as HB for simplicity's sake), they discovered that they shared many geeky things in common and affection blossomed over text messages and in the depths of the blanket forts they built together to watch movies. He liked the Avengers and she liked the X-Men. He wrote code and she designed interfaces. They both enjoyed fiery Indian food and even though he didn't like horror movies, he curled up with her to watch The Babadook for the first time. Their blanket forts became architectural[...]
“How long do you think it takes to dig a six foot grave, six feet deep? What is that, like, a hundred cubic feet of dirt?” Hundred an’ eight, actually. Assuming shoulder-width is three feet across on average. “In the dark.” I’m sitting on a nearby tomb — feet dangling off the ground, shoes kicking so that the lace of my left foot sneaker’s come undone and it’s making a regular ticking sound against the cement resting place of some lady whose name I don’t recognize. The dark part is important. You don’t want to be seen while you’re doi[...]
