Maris Thompson

The Valley

The rusted curves of blemished steel roofed the stretching valley, mutating the once captivating Emerald Slade into a minefield. Their edges were piercing yet brittle; chunks snapped, fell, and embedded into the broken layers of the unfortunate. In the wind, they squeaked, swinging back and forth in a cacophony of death. In the wind, they […]

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Metamorphic

I’m stretched out across a page. My words in full view of the watchful eyes—the assessing eyes that stare at my bare being, ready with a pen shaped to scalpel. My joints are snapped, twisted, and removed. My tendons lay exposed, splattered with red ink across paper. Trinkles of meaning roll away, dripping to a

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