QueenElf

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I have 100 stories published in 4 collections on the site.
My stories have been read 109918 times and 22 of my stories have been cherry picked.

QueenElf's picture
Ms Lisa Eileen Fuller.

My stories

Cherry

Origami.

This is another piece I have deleted and re-written. I thought it was one of my better poems but couldn't take the advice offered at the time. I hope this is better than the orginal. Origami. ^^^^^^^^^^^^

Nyctophobia.

This is a complete re-write of an old story. I cut out a lot if the dead wood, so to speak. Thanks to everyone who suggested various alterations. Gordon had been afraid of the dark all of his life. Actually it was more a fear of the absence of light, but the doctor's had insisted it was the same thing. He'd been to see many over the years, psychiatrists, psychotherapists, hypnotists, even trying the alternate therapies such as acupuncture and herbalists. As a young child, his parents were called on to answer any questions that may give some insight into his condition. No, he had never been locked in a dark cupboard, hadn't got himself trapped in a cave or more bizarrely, had never seen a corpse by candlelight. By the age of ten, he'd been hooked up to various machines that tested for any abnormalities in the brain, but nothing ever come of it. He was given a prescription by a bored consultant who told his parents he was 'highly strung.'

Signed, Sealed and Delivered.

Gabriel tipped his glasses forward to the end of his nose and peered with agitation at the report he held in front of him. Zeke's usual untidy scrawl was giving him a headache. Besides that he was fed up of spending a century on his current duty, surely, by now, he deserved a break? Anything else would do, he couldn't aspire to being Peter's right hand man but even a spell with the fledgling Cherubs would do.
Cherry

Greasy Joe.

A sort of prose/ poem. Greasy Joe. ^^^^^^^^^^^^ Kids can be cruel; it's a fact of life. But we never meant it Not to go so far Not to string you up Like the chickens. Greasy Joe, we called you that
Cherry

Shoes.

Tip-tap, tippety-tap, my heels strike the wooden floor, bounce off the walls of the tall corridors and echo in my ears. (I imagine thousands of dwarves delving in the deep of Moira, each hammer stroke painstakingly working on a tiny piece of carving) such is my imagination. The familiar feel of a panic attack starts in my booming heart and the corridor starts to recede into darkness, a long tunnel with no beginning and no end. I'm rooted to the spot, unable to move. I'm hyperventilating, I know it, and stretching out a hand to steady myself I'm falling again¦

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