Laura Morrigan

A sort of true story Inspired by the amazing  Magaly  Magaly, I don't remember if I told you this but your character is named after Mina Murray.  One day, Mina woke up with a terrible pain in her eye. She went to her husband, who could see nothing wrong with it. All day, as she went about her business, shapes swam in the corner of her eye. She hoped it would go away, that it was simply irritation. She used some eyedrops, and went to bed. The next day, the pain was worse. As she left the house and went about her shopping, things seemed strange. People seemed to stare, and there was something not right about them. Mina decided to go to the hospital. She took an umbrella with her because it looked like rain, and it was good for steadying herself. Her sore eye made it hard to focus, and the pavement seemed determined to meet with her face. As she was headed through the hospital, Mina heard a cry. As she ran to the source, some dust blew into her good eye, filling it with tear...

   It was raining outside and Clara couldn't go out to play. Judy was playing with the dolls again and Clara pretended to read a book while secretly watching her. Judy was her older sister, and sometimes she scared Clara. Judy looked up and saw Clara looking. She gave her a wide grin, made a little spooky by the front tooth that had fallen out recently, the adult one yet to grow in its place. 'Pick a story, Clara', she said. 'Beauty and the Beast', Clara said quickly, turning back to her book. She didn't like Judy's stories. 'Once upon a time,' Judy said, 'there was a girl so sweet and beautiful that all who saw her called her Beauty. One day her father, a rich merchant, went to the port to see his ships come in. He asked his daughters what they wanted. The eldest wanted jewels and dresses, but Beauty only wanted a single rose. Alas, when he got there, he found that his ships had all been lost at sea and he was ruined. On the way back, he saw the...

 I wrote this short story thinking about what it would be like if everyone in the world was tattooed, and those without tattoos were the ones who were judged by others. Because I like to play with realities, I also made blank skin a condition that cannot be changed. I know that tattoos are a choice etc., but they often have a distinct meaning to those of us who have them, and I tried to bring this across with the idea of a woman who could not change her inkless state, and just wanted to be understood for who she was. It is also an examination of beauty standards and the way those who are different in any way are treated.  ~Unmarked~ Freak. Unmarked. She was used to the insults, but the words still stung. She hated the way they looked at her. Mothers, steering their children away from her, as if her blank skin was catching, men, leering at her, imagining what she looked like without her clothes, as though the blankness of her skin was intended only for them. She was diagnosed w...

  Please follow the link and check out all the other posts!  http://hollyshorrorland.blogspot.com.au/2014/02/the-third-annual-vampires-day-soiree.html  http://hollyshorrorland.blogspot.com.au/2014/02/the-third-annual-vampires-day-soiree.html The Incredibly Boring Un-Life of Benjamin Barker The following is intended as a humour piece and no copyright infringement of others characters is intended. The mocking is also intended in a friendly nature.  This Document Copyright ©2014 By Laura Morrigan  All Rights Reserved except for the names Lestat, Louis, 'Bunny', the 'sparkly vampire', Benjamin Barker and Sweeney Todd, who belong to their respective authors and are used for parody. I Benjamin Barker shuffled the papers on his desk, as frustrated frown on his face. The paper-cut on his hand still throbbed, though it had already healed. It was a typical wound in the life of a paper pusher, but still, a frustrating one. Frustrating because the dull ache and the sight of...

STARS Inspired by Ray Bradbury It was a mild evening near the end of summer; the last rays of the setting sun lay red and golden on the grass and in the branches of the trees, and illuminated the bright hair of the women wandering the meadows in their thin summer dresses. The sun was in their eyes, the hot, slightly scorched smell of the day still hung in the air, as well as its particular taste. The air always felt fresher in the summer, whispering secrets and carrying scents from distant lands. From far off the breeze carried the sound of laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Smith walked hand in together through the meadow, Mrs. Smith Stopping every now and then to pick daisies that nodded among the long grass like fine lords and ladies bowing to one another. Slowly, the light fell from the sky, turning it from gold, to blue, to dark blue, to black. The glittering specks of stars appeared in the night sky. The children were home from school, waiting for them when they returned to their house. They...

I was down in the yard one day, trimming the roses, when I saw it. An ant, trapped in a drop of honey that had fallen from a bees nest. He struggled fearfully, only getting himself further stuck. Perhaps most people would have killed him, but I was a tender young woman, as my pa always said. So it was that I hurriedly brought some water, and carefully, very carefully tipped the tiniest drops of it onto the honey, melting it, so that the ant could clean the honey off himself and be free. It was hard not to drop too much and drown him, but I was patient and slow. Slowly, oh so slowly, the ant worked his way free. Then the strangest thing happened. He seemed to stand up on the back two of his six little legs and it seemed as if he was bowing to me. Very carefully, I got down on the ground to see him better. It was then that I heard his quiet little voice. 'Brave miss, I am eternally grateful to you for rescuing me from the trap my enemies set for me. You are beautiful as well as brave...

Published in Perspectives: The University of Sydney Anthology 2013 The Sparrow Heart or A Father's Gift He still remembers the moment he first knew his daughter was going to die, the look on the doctor's face, a look of utter helplessness and despair. He almost felt sorry for the man, except that it was  his daughter that was dying. He remembered the doctor saying something about her being too small to fight anymore, and he laughed a bitter laugh because she never would get any bigger. He would bury her at this size, in a tiny white child's coffin. He remembered his heart aching in sympathy with hers, that tiny sparrow heart that beat so fast, but could not keep even that tiny body alive.   She had her mother's freckled skin, spattered with tiny brown marks like paint flicked from a paintbrush. Her arms and legs were too thin, sticks that he could wrap his fingers around with ease. She still had the round belly of childhood, and a scrawny birdlike chest to contain her s...