Harper Lewis
Bio
I'm a subversive weirdo nerd witch who loves rocks. Intrusive rhyme bothers me. Some of my fiction may have provoked divorce proceedings in another state.😈
My words are mine. Suggest ai use and get eviscerated.
MA English literature, CofC
Achievements (10)
Stories (174)
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Mapping Us. Honorable Mention in Maps of the Self Challenge.
What would a map of my relationship with my first love look like? How big of a territory would it be, how many rivers, mountains, plains, valleys, beaches? What about the roads—where do they come from, enroute where? Some two-lanes became highways over the years, and some aren’t even footpaths anymore. Our topography would challenge the most talented cartographer.
By Harper Lewis4 months ago in Humans
Southern Goodbye . Honorable Mention in The Sound of First Frost Challenge.
It slinks in slowly down here in God's country, that first frost. Southern seasons change softly, autumn and summer embrace like lovers, and then autumn does the goodbye ritual with the sun’s warmth:
By Harper Lewis4 months ago in Poets
Football Friday Night. Content Warning.
It was one of those magical southern nights in October, and all of the teenagers in town were drunk on autumn and youth. There would be a party after the football game, and youthful concupiscence would be satisfied before the moon set in the morning sky. In anticipation of this, the boys were dousing themselves in Polo and Drakkar Noir while the girls teased their bangs into ski slopes and lacquered them above their heavily mascaraed eyes lined with kohl and painted hot pink stripes on their cheekbones. Def Leppard and Whitesnake blasted from boomboxes perched on dressers and lingerie chests. Pliers were used to zip jeans, and Marlboro Lights were smuggled out of sock drawers and into handbags while condoms pressed their circular imprint into dollar bills in wallets in back pockets.
By Harper Lewis4 months ago in Fiction
Laundry
The sun was about halfway down the afternoon sky, and the late-summer mugginess was nearly visible. The vague hum of suburban noise lingered here and there on this hazy late July day. Susan pointed the nozzle of the hose at a withering hydrangea, fuming, absolutely certain that something was going on with Sam and Lila. She nearly tripped over the cedar stump when she put the hose back. She and Sam had the tree cut when they bought the house; it had been almost completely choked with wisteria and was a threat to the house. Susan had been more upset about losing the wisteria than the tree. The purple blossoms looked like grapes to her, so pretty in the spring sky.
By Harper Lewis4 months ago in Fiction
