http://slow.writerscafe.org/mortusoculus The original writings of author Taylor Martin en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776219555 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 I am an experiment. Ever since I was born, I was never meant to live a normal life. I was specifically planned, conceived, and born for the interest of others. Me, Summer, live a normal life? Going outside, let the sun smile down upon me, kissing my skin with its golden rays? Me, allowed to swim in .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mortusoculus/1473237/ It was hot that August day. No humidity, no breeze, just dry, nose bleed heat. I was alone on a straight, dirty road, no cars coming or going. The sun beat down on the asphalt, my shoes practically dripping with melted rubber.“I’ll bring my skate board next time.” I thought to myse.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mortusoculus/1464931/ The shore line is quite a beautiful place in the day time. Rays of sunshine peek through the clouds, and the golden grains of sand glitter like Glinda the Good Witches' crown. Footprints of strangers weave designs throughout the damp sand. Writing done with driftwood slowly washes away, their word.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mortusoculus/1464393/ The shore line is quite a beautiful place in the day time. Rays of sunshine peek through the clouds, and the golden grains of sand glitter like Glinda the Good Witches' crown. Footprints of strangers weave designs throughout the damp sand. Writing done with driftwood slowly washes away, their word.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mortusoculus/1463966/ The soft, pale green grass blades in this forest clearing were overgrown and unkempt. A few dandelions had chosen to take refuge near a mud-caked boulder. The sun loved to bathe this particular area with a single ray of light, as if it were a Broadway star, and the sun was the lighting crew.  T.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mortusoculus/1463217/ Normally, the crunching sounds of autumn leaves beneath ones boots is a comforting noise. It usually symbolizes the childish love of jumping out of ones way to stomp on yet another leaf. In poor little Cliff’s case, this sound was quite the opposite of comforting. The louder the crunching beca.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mortusoculus/1463107/ short horror story that really makes you wonder http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mortusoculus/1462169/