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Laika

United States

"The normal human consciousness is not equipped to deal with the pillars and suspension cables of the universe."

Message from Writer

Hey, I'm Shannon.
I've been writing as long as I can remember, and I never intend to stop. I'm a spoonie (chronically ill person), but I try not to let that stop me from writing every day. I write mostly sci-fi and fantasy. I like to read and watch stuff on the shadowy side, I identify more with villains than heroes, and I have a bit of a dry, dark sense of humor.
Cheers ;)

Be More Chill
Neil Gaiman
Terry Pratchett
David Eddings
Robert Jordan
Norse mythology
Doctor Who
Sherlock
Merlin
Supernatural
Slytherin

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Laika (United States) liked Gifted by Jolenify (Singapore)

5 days ago

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Laika (United States) liked Have Mercy by M. Elyse Lynch (Australia)

5 days ago

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Laika (United States) published:

The Knave

FREE WRITING

The village burned almost as loud as it did bright. The flames hissed, crackled, roared in the darkness. The blazing buildings caused the earth to shake as they collapsed, sending thousands upon thousands of sparks skyward to join the towering flames. It could have been daytime, instead of the middle of the night, but for the eerily flickering shadows and the orange glow bathed on every panicked face. The screams of the villagers ripped through the night like the daggers...

Seeking Peer Reviews

7 days ago

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Laika (United States) liked The Monster in Me by LyraLynne (United States)

7 days ago

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Laika (United States) liked The Hunt by M. Elyse Lynch (Australia)

22 days ago

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Laika (United States) started following M. Elyse Lynch (Australia)

22 days ago

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Laika (United States) liked Summer by M. Elyse Lynch (Australia)

22 days ago

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Laika (United States) liked When Gods Fight: Chapter One by Lee Fudge (United States)

22 days ago

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Laika (United States) liked The Raven Mask by Kahasai (United States)

22 days ago

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Laika (United States) reviewed:

The Raven Mask

FREE WRITING

This was a fabulous piece, so a lot of my highlighted bits are kind of nit-picky. Overall it was fantastic, so I focused on small things like grammar and word choice just to help strengthen it as a whole, and...

23 days ago

Published Work

The Knave

The village burned almost as loud as it did bright. The flames hissed, crackled, roared in the darkness. The blazing buildings caused the earth to shake as they collapsed, sending thousands upon thousands of sparks skyward to join the towering flames. It could have been daytime, instead of the middle of the night, but for the eerily flickering shadows and the orange glow bathed on every panicked face. The screams of the villagers ripped through the night like the daggers that had been plunged into the hearts of those who tried to flee.
        The Knave sat on a jet-black horse on a hill just outside the village walls. The orange glow danced on his scarred face, shadows cast by his hood obscuring his eyes. A few of his men stood near him on the hill. Some had turned away, trying to block the screams of the dying from their ears, but not he. The sound of death was music to...

In Motion

​One With the Wind

Haley looked up. Beams of sunlight shattered on the forest canopy, twining downwards between the leaves, tussling with each other to be the first to reach the forest floor. The shafts of sun alighted on the earth for only seconds before they spun away again, twitching from leaf to leaf, never still as the wind courted the tree branches above in an endless dance. Haley found herself sighing with the wind. Here the world never stood still, yet every motion was part of a certain stillness, bathed in tranquility. Every sound echoed as part of the earth’s silent breathing. Haley breathed with it, inhaling and exhaling, and the wind surged through her lungs like it did through the trees. She felt the urge to dance and be still all at once. In this place, the trees accepted her. The leaves serenaded her. The wind understood her, and invited her into itself. Here, a cloak of safety wound Haley in its folds. She belonged to the...

My December Competition 2017

Tomorrow

Last Christmas I got a bike.
        It wasn’t a wake-up-in-the-morning-and-there-it-is present. Instead, my dad and I went a few days before Christmas to a bike shop in town, so that I could choose for myself. I was fourteen, and had been riding my mum’s bike, when I’d had occasion to ride one. In the last few years I’d shot up in a rush and tangle of limbs, and my old bike sat abandoned in the back shed.
        Rain cascaded down on my me and my dad when we got out of our car; the kind of misty rain that’s like standing near a waterfall. It had been like that for days; grey, wet, dreary, and monotonous.
        Two cats patrolled the bike shop. Standoffish cats who glared disdainfully at customers invading their home, who slouched off to curl up in corners where they could avoid disturbance. They say that people are often like their pets. It was true of the woman...

My December Competition 2017

Tomorrow

Last Christmas I got a bike.
        It wasn’t a wake-up-in-the-morning-and-there-it-is present. Instead, my dad and I went a few days before Christmas to a bike shop in town, so that I could choose for myself. I was fourteen, and had been riding my mum’s bike, when I’d had occasion to ride one. In the last few years I’d shot up in a rush and tangle of limbs, and my old bike was much too small.
        It was a rainy day in December. December is always rainy where I live. I’ve never seen a white Christmas. Never woken up in the morning to see tiny feathers falling from the sky, never felt the crunch of snow under slippered feet, never seen the skid marks of Santa’s sleigh cutting through the blanket of glittery white. We had sleigh marks in the damp grass of the lawn once, but somehow that isn’t the same.
        There were two cats in the bike shop. Standoffish...

Novel Writing Competition 2017

Chapter One: Graveyard

       
    

        Orthadai Bloom was fond of graveyards. They were neat, quiet, and they took things seriously. Most people, he knew, thought of graveyards as places of death; of endings. Of things lost. But to Orthadai Bloom, they were quite the opposite. A graveyard contained the lives of countless people, countless stories; stories with happy endings and sad ones. The only unfortunate part was that most of the stories lived—or rather, did not live—only in the memories of the dead.
        Orthadai Bloom was not the name he had been given, though that might seem the only fathomable way to have acquired such a name. He did not remember the name he had been given. Only the one he had chosen for himself. He had found this name written on a tombstone; an old, moss-covered thing from a forgotten century. That had been back when he still remembered his given name, and had been searching for a way...

Novel Writing Competition 2017

Chapter One: Graveyard

        Orthadai Bloom was fond of graveyards. They were neat, quiet, and they took things seriously. Most people, he knew, thought of graveyards as places of death; of endings. Of things lost. But to Orthadai Bloom, they were quite the opposite. A graveyard contained the lives of countless people, countless stories; stories with happy endings and sad ones. The only unfortunate part was that most of the stories lived—or rather, did not live—only in the memories of the dead.
        Orthadai Bloom was not the name he had been given, though that might seem the only fathomable way to have acquired such a name. He did not remember the name he had been given. Only the one he had chosen for himself. He had found this name written on a tombstone; an old, moss-covered thing from a forgotten century. That had been back when he still remembered his given name, and had been searching for a way to get rid of it....

Novel Writing Competition 2017

Chapter One: Graveyard

        Orthadai Bloom was fond of graveyards. They were neat, quiet, and they took things seriously. Most people, he knew, thought of graveyards as places of death; of endings. Of things lost. But to Orthadai Bloom, they were quite the opposite. A graveyard contained the lives of countless people, countless stories; stories with happy endings and sad ones. The only unfortunate part was that most of the stories could be remembered only by the occupants of the graves.
        Orthadai Bloom was not the name he had been given, though that might seem the only fathomable way to have acquired such a name. He did not remember the name he had been given. Only the one he had chosen for himself. He had found this name written on a tombstone; an old, moss-covered thing missing both corners. That had been back when he still remembered his given name, and had been searching for a way to get rid of it. He’d left...

Flash Fiction Competition 2017

Sun

        Sun-cracked lips and eyes half open. Beads of sweat wreathe the forehead, trickling downwards; a salty tang hits the tongue. Sand invades the body; itching, suffocating. Thirst parches the throat, burns red-hot. Limbs drag across the ground, then head surrenders and face meets the scorched sand. Sun ignites the mane of hair, winter hair, cascading down like a cloak, concentrating the heat. The chest heaves, breathing comes in quick, stifled gasps. The air is too hot to be air. It is syrup, thick and cloying. Fear is in the sweat that trickles downwards. The final breath flares and dies.   

Truths and Untruths

Things To Do At Midnight

1. Change locations. One a week I get up, pack, and move on. Midnight is a good time to do that.
 
2. Feed that cat. There always seems to be a cat about. It’s never my cat, but there always seems to be one, anyway. I keep a little something for them, just in case.
 
3. If I could, I’d like to sit on a hilltop in the dark, gazing at the moon and the stars. I’d like to do it without worrying, without always looking back over my shoulder, afraid of what the shadows might be hiding.
 
4. I look at my pictures around midnight. I have a small shoe box that I take with me no matter how many times I move. There are three photographs inside. One shows three people: a man, a woman, and a young girl. My parents, and my sister. The picture was taken before He came. The second photo shows...

Truths and Untruths

Things To Do At Midnight

I wish that the things inside my head could be real

I wish that some things that are real were only nightmares inside my head.

I wish that I could go a day without being in pain.

I wish that I could take other people's pain away.

I wish that the things I pretend don't exist would oblige me.

I wish that the things I pretend do exist would oblige me.

I wish that the people inside my head would come out and stand beside me. 

I wish that the stories I tell would become real.

I wish for an excuse to run, to keep running and never look back.

I wish for a reason to stay, for something to ground me and a safe place to hide.

Sometimes I wish to die and then come back again. I can't help wondering how it would feel.

 

Hermes's Day Off

        Dawn was just—er—dawning, on Olympus. It was going to be a lovely day. And it was especially nice for me: Hermes, god of tricksters, thieves, and cunning. Those are the good parts. I’m also the messenger of the gods, which is a slightly less glamorous job. I spend a lot of my time running around carrying messages for my grumpy relatives.
        It’s always, “Hermes, be a good chap and send this declaration of love to my latest girlfriend.”
        Or, “Hermes, I’m fresh out of that luscious moisturizer that’s all the rage with the mortals right now. Go and fetch me some more.”
        Or, “Hermes, Poseidon just killed this mortal in a fit of rage. Could you escort him to the underworld? It’s the least we can do.”
        And, more often than you might think, “HERMES! GO DOWN TO EARTH THIS INSTANT AND TELL MY GOOD FOR NOTHING HUSBAND ZEUS TO GET HIS HANDS OFF THAT DRYAD!”
        Some might envy...

Burgundwen

It was not much of a town, Burgundwen.
                It lay in nowhere’s backyard, self-consciously unwilling to take up too much space. Burgundwen was unremarkable in every respect, except maybe its size; it was old, but not decrepit, shabby, but not crumbling, and quaint, but not picturesque. The adventurous traveler who neared Burgundwen would have to take care not to sneeze, or they would find the town in their rear-view mirror without being able to comprehend how it had got there. 
                The other strange thing about Burgundwen was the people who lived there—or rather, didn’t. Someone merely passing through would notice that sure, while the gas station offered gas, and those automated thingies devoured one’s money willingly enough, there wasn’t a person in sight. Not in the whole ding-danged town.
                And the name, too. What kind of a name for a town was Burgundwen? The founder of the town—who could be called that only in the loosest of...

Snow

        Snowflakes fall like tiny feathers from the sky, the soft insides of a pillow burst in some divine slumber party. The elfin wingtips brush my face, alight on my hair; cold and icy, not as soft as they seem. Tiny splintered chips of cold. One lands on the tip of my finger and I stare at it, watching as it melts. Beautiful. I feel a pang as it fades away; it is a pity that the beauty is so small and so short-lived. And so rarely appreciated. I consider how many beautiful things there are whose beauty is destroyed by too much examination. A snowflake melts. A flower wilts. A rainbow disappears if you squint too hard. A bolt of lightning is instantaneous, easily missed altogether.        
        I sit on a bench, in the snow, in the cheery, busy brightness of the downtown. There are so many people trudging through the crowded streets, wrapped in mufflers and scarves, faces red...

Turned to Stone

The Face

    I have had a face ingrained in my subconscious since the day I was born. I know its every detail better than my own. It has always been there, from the moment I sucked in my first breath and felt the cold air on my face and saw the flashing lights and hear the loud, clamoring noises of being alive, all the sensations working overtime, introducing themselves without invitation to the little body who just wasn’t quite ready for the world. The face brought me peace. Gave me something to hold on to when I was afraid I would drift away in to all the sounds and sensations; when I was longing for the dark warmth of my mother’s womb; when I was turning my tiny lungs inside out in my desperation to drown it all. The face brought me comfort. The face belongs to someone who has always been there, watching me. Never interfering, just watching. Almost curious. Until...

Writing for Children Competition 2017

Winkle and the Window


    
    A long time ago, there lived a small boy called Winkle. His mother had named him after the stars, which had winked and twinkled in the sky at his birth, laughing at nothing, as stars do. Winkle lived with his mother and father in a cottage by the sea, and every day his parents would go out in a little fishing boat to catch their supper. But one day, when the sun began to sink in the sky, Winkle’s parents did not return. Winkle sat in the sand on the beach, watching the sun dip below the waves, looking for his parents’ boat. It did not come.
    “That’s strange,” Winkle said to himself. “I wonder if they lost their way.”
    Winkle was a resourceful boy, and he decided that he would go and ask every creature he met if they had seen his parents. He stood, brushed the sand from his tunic, and walked into the forest.
    The first...

Writing for Children Competition 2017

Winkle and the Window


    
    A long time ago, there lived a small boy called Winkle. His mother had named him after the stars, which had winked and twinkled in the sky at his birth, laughing at nothing, as stars do. Winkle lived with his mother and father in a cottage by the sea, and every day his parents would go out in a little fishing boat to catch their supper. But one day, when the sun began to sink in the sky, Winkle’s parents did not return. Winkle sat in the sand on the beach, watching the sun dip below the waves, looking for his parents’ boat. It did not come.
    “That’s strange,” Winkle said to himself. “I wonder if they lost their way.”
    Winkle was a resourceful boy, and he decided that he would go and ask every creature he met if they had seen his parents. He stood, brushed the sand from his tunic, and walked into the forest.
    The first...

Writing for Children Competition 2017

Winkle and the Window

    
    A long time ago, there lived a small boy called Winkle. His mother had named him after the stars, which had winked and twinkled in the sky at his birth, laughing at nothing, as stars do. Winkle lived with his mother and father in a cottage by the sea, and every day his parents would go out in a little fishing boat to catch their supper. But one day, when the sun began to sink in the sky, Winkle’s parents did not return. Winkle sat in the sand on the beach, watching the sun dip below the waves, looking for his parents’ boat. It did not come.
    “That’s strange,” Winkle said to himself. “I wonder if they lost their way.”
    Winkle was a resourceful boy, and he decided that he would go and ask every creature he met if they had seen his parents. He stood, brushed the sand from his tunic, and walked into the forest.
    The first...

1 Photo, 100 Words

Black and Blue

    Black and blue. The colors of bruises and sleepless nights. The colors of bottomless oceans and the dark circles under my eyes. I survey the room; black and blue are all I see. The unyielding blue of aquarium tanks, almost masked by inky silhouettes. I shiver. With this crowd, the room should not be so cold. Maybe I am the only one who feels the chill. I step forward and rest my head on the glass. I can no longer see black, only blue. Without its counterpart, it appears shapeless. Bland. Maybe we need black to help define the blue.      

Laika's 24 Likes

Gifted by Jolenify

Published 10 months ago

Have Mercy by M. Elyse Lynch

Published 6 days ago

The Monster in Me by LyraLynne

Published 8 days ago

The Hunt by M. Elyse Lynch

Published about 1 month ago

Summer by M. Elyse Lynch

Published 24 days ago

When Gods Fight: Chapter One by Lee Fudge

Published 23 days ago

The Raven Mask by Kahasai

Published 22 days ago

Featured Writer (#5) by Kaitlyn ❄

Published 25 days ago

​One With the Wind by Laika

Published about 1 month ago

​Unafraid by Norah

Published over 1 year ago

Tomorrow by Laika

Published 3 months ago

Tomorrow by Laika

Published 3 months ago

Winkle and the Window by Laika

Published 8 months ago

Chapter One: Graveyard by Laika

Published 3 months ago

Chapter One: Graveyard by Laika

Published 3 months ago

Runaway by Rosie

Published 3 months ago

The Face by Laika

Published 8 months ago

Mara Bennett by casual.ties

Published 4 months ago

Chapter One: Graveyard by Laika

Published 4 months ago

Things To Do At Midnight by Laika

Published 7 months ago

Snow by Laika

Published 8 months ago

Kill It before It Lays Eggs by J.

Published over 1 year ago

Lucy the real-life princess by Rosie

Published 9 months ago

16 Likes from Others

Winkle and the Window

Liked by 15 people

Tomorrow

Liked by 26 people

Sun

Liked by 6 people

Black and Blue

Liked by 1 person

Hermes's Day Off

Liked by 4 people

​One With the Wind

Liked by 14 people

Burgundwen

Liked by 3 people

Chapter One: Graveyard

Liked by 7 people

Tomorrow

Liked by 3 people

Winkle and the Window

Liked by 5 people

Things To Do At Midnight

Liked by 3 people

Chapter One: Graveyard

Liked by 4 people

Chapter One: Graveyard

Liked by 14 people

The Face

Liked by 4 people

Snow

Liked by 4 people

Things To Do At Midnight

Liked by 2 people

Good neighbor

We like your photo and your biography.

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You've published multiple versions of the same piece

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You're following over five other writers.

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You've gone live!

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You really are prolific - you've published over ten pieces already.

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Very nicely done - you've got over ten favorites.

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Best seller

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