Charlotte Humphrey
Bio
I wrote because I couldn’t breathe. Simply, I was bleeding - so I broke open my pen and poured out its insides.
Stories (5/0)
Metal
They all knew he was going to be the one to do it. And they supposed it was fitting. He was the oldest, he was the quietest and, in truth, he cared the most. They weren’t worried about him. They were worried about Selo and Jon, because they were still young. They were still plagued with nightmares that they struggled to make sense of when they woke up. They still crept into their siblings’ room at night. Into their parents’ rooms. That’s why they were worried—because Selo would creep into their parents’ room and cry small tears and then they’d start asking questions.
By Charlotte Humphrey6 years ago in Criminal
The Flying Kind
Ella Mason remembered how the world looked from the plane window thirty thousand feet above Korea’s capital. Looking back, she supposed she would always remember how the city lights had been carved into the darkness, running like veins. A low hum drifted through the dim light of the cabin. She remembered how the sound and the air coming from the vents above her head pressed into her skin. She was a small thing and the cold was beginning to reach her bones, it felt. Only, she wished that was the only thing that sent a shiver down her spine.
By Charlotte Humphrey6 years ago in Wander
The Ghost in the Garden
The ghosts had dragged themselves home. Alby sat by the gold-dusted roses, drinking the orange rays of a sun that wasn't quite ready to give up the day. The bees rose up and down over the hedgerows as if drifting on a warm current. If this was heaven, he thought that would be okay. He liked it here, far more than he liked the church. It was cold in there and outside, gravestones cast long shadows on the grass and when he drifted through he felt as if he could slip into the dark shapes and never leave. The thought scared him. Here, he wasn’t scared. The house was too far away— he enjoyed losing himself amongst the first and the bluebells and the far smell of a dying bonfire. And Ethan. He liked to watch him tend the leaves that were beginning to seep into the grass. Ethan was trimming one of the small trees, closer to the house. Alby let himself rise and he drifted through the nats and the dust and the sun and sank again next to the fountain. The water was dangerously low in the basin and what was left was a strange shade of cool green. The same green had crept up the sides, infecting the surrounding concrete with patches of wet moss. Alby didn’t mind—he'd overhead Ethan telling the lady of the house that he'd like to clean it up, fix the pump, and make it shiny and new again. “It will do a hell of a job at keepin' them nats away, ma'am,” he'd said. “They like still water, you see. You get that fountain going and they soon clear off.”
By Charlotte Humphrey6 years ago in Horror
