the chilliad
fiction
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snow white, blood red
she grows slowly, and out of order. first her hands, long and bony; then her arms, thin, hollow-looking. she never looks quite like a child: no chubby cheeks, no skinned knees, no missing teeth. her hair is thick and so black it sometimes seems viscous. her skin is so thin you should be able to see the blood running through it. they name her snow white, for the fairness of her skin. so fair that she cries when left in the light too long.
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white queen, red heart
the hut where grimhilde is born has only one window. she has no father. she has the woods. she knows this because her mother tells her, over and over: i cut my palm so deeply that it can no longer curl into a fist. the blood was hot. it melted the snow, and was swallowed by the dirt. the woods accepted. the woods gave me you.
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rainy days (in chateau d’if)
it’s a cat’s house. we just live here.
nonfiction
c’est tout.
molly ofgeography 