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Home

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Plot Builder

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Stories

Matt Shearin

6
Writings
3
Followers
0
Following

Matt Shearin

6
Writings
3
Followers
0
Following
Desolate

Matt Shearin

1 min read

Endless daze, dust and heat bake every inch of my skin. Plants wither, eroded and dried, rain a forgotten hymn.

The tides retreat, desolate shores, no encounter to be seen. My circadian rhythm shattered, sleep, a distant, fading dream.

The sun, a tyrant, blazing bold, scorches the world in endless day, no trace of darkness, no respite, no shadows left to play....

Poetry

Science fiction

2
When I Look In The Mirror

Matt Shearin

1 min read

The fog hung heavy on May 20th, clinging to everything in its path. I was staring out the kitchen window when a glint of light caught my eye. It seemed to be coming from the far end of the yard, reflecting off something I couldn't quite make out. A shiver of curiosity, mixed with a strange sense of foreboding, ran down my spine. I pulled on my jacket and crept out into the night, the damp grass mu...

Mystery

Science fiction

5
Hope

Matt Shearin

1 min read

Black holes devour, unseen in the night, A void profound, where darkness holds tight.

Yet, in that expanse, where shadows reside, Stars ignite, with brilliance their guide.

Like distant beacons, they glimmer and gleam, Whispers of hope, in a cosmic dream.

For even in darkness, despair's deep abyss, A flicker of light, a chance for a kiss.

So let your heart soar, on wings of the night, Seek those b...

Poetry

Adventure

4
Asleep

Matt Shearin

1 min read

The alarm clock screams, I drag myself to the sink, toothpaste minty, the bus a blur, then desk and dreams.

The alarm clock screams, I drag myself to the sink, toothpaste minty, the bus a blur, then desk, but wide awake.

All night, a blur of screens and laughter, goofing off, the hours lost to games.

The alarm clock screams, a frantic rush, no time for the sink, the bus a blur, then desk, and heav...

Poetry

1
Half Glass Full

Matt Shearin

1 min read

No longer cutting, I have to feel the small burn and sweaty palm, knowing what I did was wrong.

The whiskey I used to consume is no longer there; the burn of the alcohol masked the emptiness

No longer questioning who I am or who I’m not

I look to 988, knowing they have to let me speak my truth without needing to be ready for someone to feel defensive, as if they need to justify anything

Witnessing...

Poetry

Drama