Heather L Lore's Page

As I sit here blurry-eyed (squinting to see what I am typing), I must admit that I should not have battled with the urge to throw myself out of bed and write last night. I chose to toss and turn instead and got maybe an hour or two of true shut-eye for my troubles. So not worth it.

I have written numerous stories and have stacks of manuscripts for novels, but I never wrote a true horror story. Ever. How odd. I am not one for gore for the sake of blood getting everywhere because that just remind… Continue

Here's a poem that was published in Rattle Magazine's Winter 2002 issue, #18. I wrote it for Heath.

HEATH

I was born in my brother's grave,
emerged in his remains.
He is still with me.
When I speak of him, I speak of me.

A stone bearing his name and our birthday
marks his resting place.
Horses roam the hills beyond.
I stand at the back of the cemetery,
and that tiny plot becomes all I see.

Shadows bring solace on blistering, blinding Summer afternoons. There was this certain Magnolia tree in a historic park that I remember from my childhood. Its branches swept the ground and the grass stopped at the touch of the leaves. Only bare earth skirted the tree. It was at least ten degrees cooler under its embrace. Better still, nobody could see me! I didn't have to share that sacred space with anybody else.

Stories are sacred spaces, too. Some I will share. Others I will take with me to… Continue