Laura Lann
Bio
I am an author from deep East Texas with a passion for horror and fantasy, often heavily mixed together. In my spare time, when I am not writing, I draw and paint landscape and fantasy pieces. I now reside in Alaska where adventures await.
Stories (130)
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Thuds on the Roof
There’s something on the roof. Clipping. Clopping. I hear it step and step. The sun has just set and the world is still the hazy blue before it turns black. The trees are blots of ink against the clouds, no stars out, and no eternal night quite in place. It walks across the way, over to the bay window to my left. It sounds large and heavy. It’s pipes I will to myself. But I know there are no pipes in the roof. They are all underneath, in the crawl space that I keep locked and latched. It’s thumps continue, then stop. I glance to the window. Will a man leep from my roof and run away into the approaching dark? Will some wild animal leap free? We have a number of them.
By Laura Lann2 years ago in Horror
Men's Monster
My therapist used to tell me I was retelling my abuse over and over in my writing. That I was analyzing the plight I faced with myself and with my father from a million different 'what ifs'. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I am. It's funny how trauma imprints so hard on you that you can trace its footsteps back to your childhood. When I was a kid, I invented reasons for it. I fancied that surely if he was a monster, it was because there was monster blood deep within him. Now, as an adult, I understand that abuse does run through families in a viscous cycle, not unlike the monster blood I envisioned. So here is the story a nine year old girl told herself for why men did evil things to people.
By Laura Lann3 years ago in Fiction
Wooden Boats
My grandfather had a sawmill. It was a large shop under a tin roof. The floor was always covered in piles of sawdust, which smelled of pine and work, and the tables adorned with stacks of wood and projects resting near the large blades. It was a magical place where his strong hands crafted doll houses, tables, chairs, and many other things. I spent my childhood sitting at a table made by him in that shop. It was of pine and cedar and lacquered over with a clear finish to protect if from the messes children make.
By Laura Lann3 years ago in Families
Grief
Death is so putrid and difficult. I cannot hold it nor soothe it, and I suppose I should find beauty in it. After all, with death the sufferings of this life end. They close and a new door opens. What you believe drastically impacts your perception of what's next, and I believe in an eternity free of the sufferings of this life. It gives me hope and something beautiful to dwell on in the face of loss. But, loss weighs heavy on me still.
By Laura Lann3 years ago in Families
Unfinished Work
My writing comes in spurts or spells. It's hardly ever planned or disciplined. I have quick ideas for challenges and prompts, but never find the urgency to put them to paper. No, they aren't what I want to write. Though they aren't confining, my restless hands turn to other stories like shiny objects caught in a crow's beak. I'll play in the poems sometimes. They're quick and easy for me, like fiddling notes out on a guitar. Like sketching lazy shapes with no shadows or details.
By Laura Lann3 years ago in Confessions
River Walks . Content Warning.
You never would say goodbye at the end of visits. No, not you. There was always a bony hug and a gentle, "See ya later" in that sing, song cadence you spoke in. Like a story teller. Like someone who had seen a lot of the world and just wanted to spend the rest of his time sitting around a fire, talking. And, goodbye, it was too definite for you. You would see me at the next campfire. At the next game of dominos. The next shared hot meal at Grandma's table. There would always be a next time.
By Laura Lann3 years ago in Humans
