Shannon Hilson
Bio
Pro copywriter chasing wonder, weirdness, and the stories that won’t leave me alone. Fiction, poetry, and reflections live here.
You can check out my blog, newsletters, socials, and other active profiles via my Linktree.
Stories (42)
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Something's Wrong With Mindy
From the outside looking in, the Martins led the ideal life. They lived in a beautiful pale-yellow house with a perfectly manicured lawn and a variety of stunning rose bushes out front, the envy of all who saw them. They were tall, blonde, blue-eyed, athletic, and physically perfect according to society’s current set of standards.
By Shannon Hilsonabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
Cargo Beach
When most people who had been to Florida thought back on their time there, they tended to picture the same things. The luxurious, saturated feeling of hot Southern sun on their skin. The impossibly sweet tang of fresh oranges on their tongues. All of the colors, and flavors, and sights, and sounds that filled your senses when you walked through the streets of some of the cities.
By Shannon Hilson19 days ago in Fiction
Moving Day
Boris ran his gloved hands through his long, tangled, black hair as the wind whipped through it. His merciless, ice-blue eyes squinted as he looked out across the limitless expanse of the ocean from the back of his nameless black horse, the horse’s hooves stamping impatiently on the surface of the sea upon which it stood as nonchalantly as can be.
By Shannon Hilson19 days ago in Fiction
The Etiquette of Endless Light
The Usual Weather No one in the city remembers the exact day the sun stopped moving. People generally agree that it happened sometime after the grocery store began stocking strawberries again, but well before the mayor announced the new festival to celebrate “a remarkably stable season.” Most residents place it somewhere around there, in the fuzzy calendar purgatory where ordinary life continues.
By Shannon Hilson27 days ago in Fiction
The Architecture of Normal Things
The First Door The first extra room appeared on an ordinary Tuesday morning while my mother was trying to remember where she'd last left the vacuum cleaner. She was standing halfway down the hall with one hand on her hip, staring intensely at a door that had absolutely not been there the night before.
By Shannon Hilson27 days ago in Fiction
