Nicole Westerhouse
Bio
I'm thirty.
Damn, that hurts to type, but there it is.
Not much of note.
I suppose I should say "yet."
Makes it sound like I'm going places.
Stories (19/0)
Repentance of the Grimm
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. I try to convince myself, this time they won't come. Like a fog lifted from the swamp bogs, I would be freed from those cursed clouds. Every night at 11:55, I stand ardent at the outskirt, and imagine I can cross the threshold. I imagine a sky the color of cauldrons, only painted by the illumination of a million stars.
By Nicole Westerhouseabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night After the Wake
Georgia feels awkward standing in a kitchen surrounded by sympathy casseroles. Despite this being the same kitchen she grew up in, standing at her mother’s side as she cooked the Sunday roast, on her tiptoes, trying to mix the chocolate for cookies, resisting temptation to eat the batter itself, she feels herself a stranger here. The room is the same, unchanged through decades, never remodeled, the same familiar feeling of home, but Georgia feels different. She tugs self consciously at her black Alaia dress, turning her Manolo Blahnik clad feet inward towards her. She feels strangely overdressed for this kitchen.
By Nicole Westerhouse3 years ago in Fiction
The Lights They Saw That Day
"I'm not sure what the point of this is." The words reverberate in the claustrophobic space, a wistful sigh woven throughout them. An unlit cigarette rattles slightly between long bony fingers, on its way to the thin lips that spoke the words.
By Nicole Westerhouse3 years ago in Fiction
