an untitled excerpt from something i never finished

 hello, lovelies!

i'm so sorry for the lack of activity recently, i've seemingly come down with something. either that or i've been having the worst migraine i've had in a while. it's honestly a coin toss. but i can't really stare at my laptop screen for very long without it bothering my eyes, so i'm just going to post some more creative writing. i think this one was on my substack, though i may have deleted it? i get nervous when i share creative fictional writing, though i'm not sure why. well, no matter: here's something i wrote a couple years back. i was listening to a lot of ethel cain and watching sharp objects when i wrote this, so that's probably what inspired the whole southern vibe i was attempting to convey through this piece. maybe someday i'll finish writing it, as i gave up when i couldn't think of anything else to write about. i know lizzy really liked this one, and asked me where the rest of it was when i sent it to her. anyways, here it is.

fern cooper excerpt

Fern Cooper was born in her parents' claw foot bathtub on the ninth day of the seventh month, seventeen years ago. She was pale despite all the time she spent in the southern sun, freckles kissing nearly every inch of her alabaster skin, aside from her left arm. Her knees, always knocking into each other, were perpetually red, near raw, from the amount of time she spent kneeling at her bedside, hands clasped in prayer.

The boys liked to joke that she was certainly proficient in kneeling for a man and babbling God's name.

Her hair was a dull mousey brown that snaked it's way down to her waist; her brother called it dishwater coloured. Her wet sand coloured tresses were always adorned with clips or ribbons or bow or what have you. What started as her mother's attempts at containing the wild unruliness of her daughter's hair turned to beautiful self-expression. 

Fern's eyes were, like her namesake, green, though no nearly as vibrant. She often joked she should have been named after something more dull, like a lime rind or pine needles. Neither of Fern's parent's had green eyes, both instead having chocolate coloured eyes; the boys used to joke and would often spread the rumor that Fern's real father was the olive-eyed former high school football star and hometown hero, Olly Gilbert. 

Olly was arrested for the assault of his girlfriend, newbie cheerleader Daisy Craven. They had started dating when she transferred at the beginning of her freshman year as an academically gifted thirteen-year-old; he, on the other hand, was a senior at nineteen, after having been held back for his grades, or lack thereof. Daisy's parent's pushed for Olly to be charged with third degree murder, manslaughter, anything, when she was found hanging from her second floor bedroom window. Some eyewitnesses stated that Daisy and Olly had been seen together the night she died, and that she seemed to be distressed. She had used old bedsheets as a noose; childhood memories used for something so heartbreaking cause a rift to form in her parents' marriage. One of the bedsheets was fabric printed with princesses that her grandmother had made for her, another was taken straight from her bed that had bunnies and fawns on it. Olly was never charged with anything, and instead went into sales. He married, had a couple children, then ate a bullet on the twentieth anniversary of Daisy's death. Some say guilt, others say pure sadness at the loss of his childhood love. 

 Fern was the tallest of us girls, and she towered over a few boys, just shy of six foot one. Old church hens would scoff and hold their fans and pamphlets with their white glove clad hands like paws just high enough to conceal their mouths as they whispered all sorts of things about her. Whispered about Fern's alleged promiscuity, calling her a Jezebel that would steal their sons and husbands and turn them to lives of wickedness. Whispered about how her hemlines would always fall just above her knees, and rise even higher whenever we strolled through town to the local candy shop. Once, though, Jackie Clarke told off Miss Eunice for calling Fern a whore when her husband had leered at the teenager's legs in hopes of catching sight of her knickers. She had said that Fern was the type of woman who would let any man lay with her for the right price. Jackie stood before her, hands balled into fists so hard they shook, as he said, "Does your husband know that none of your precious angel children belong to him?"