Anca Dunavete

“You are so good. So good. You’re always feeling so much, and sometimes it feels like you’re gonna bust open from all the feeling, don’t it? People like you are the best in the world, but you sure do suffer for it.” – Silas House ☾ I write fiction because it feels less intrusive. We … Continue reading You Call That a Knife? This Is A Knife. →

I want to believe in God, but I doubt that He’d believe in me if I were to make Him up again. I’ve been staring into space for so long now and not once have I had the feeling that we may get on good terms, even if I let Him exist again out of … Continue reading I Miss, Therefore I Am →

from a work in progress Towns at rest, people going home, intermittent patches of glitter and dark everywhere, all the little things that make life up were dancing restlessly through her lashes. Head leaning against the car window, Kara felt wide awake with fear and curiosity. Houses rolled past her like a tracking shot in … Continue reading Getting Ready to Meet the Devil →

When you fictionalise your life you have to make up some of the words yourself – the way they taste, the way they sound in the air – and twist them until no one can tell what hell you dragged them out of. When they ask, you tell them you read a lot as a kid, then you … Continue reading How to Be Your Own Story →

Takes a deep breath and exhales. Pauses for a moment. Then begins to type. It’s been months now. It feels longer, like this has always been my life. If you knew what rages inside me, you too would see the flat cloud formation at the top of the storm. I rain over myself, pull up … Continue reading The Storm Before the Calm →

From the height of my balcony the world seems smaller, easier to tame. Easier to love. Sunlight lay across my knees. I feel like an episode of my life, one that keeps repeating itself. One that I can not bear to hear myself typing alive and placing on an imaginary shelf. 'This past doesn’t need … Continue reading Writer Girl, Interrupted →

The morning was only growing colder. The streets were still dark. He crawled down roads, staring, as if looking through a window; drenched with old, haunting images of days that now seemed to never have been. He stood waiting, coughing. The chill of the night had entered him. The lamp by the bed was broken … Continue reading In Praise of Blood and Noise →

Melanie is the product of somebody's imagination, a character in a story still being written. As she develops – as she is being developed – she begins to question her existence in between her maker's writing sessions. Why can't she remember her childhood? What do the blank spaces mean? Why does she not feel free in the world? And, most … Continue reading On Fire, But Not Burning →

for Letters of Love I hope this letter finds you alive – all senses and engines burnings – and well. It might find you waiting in line at the Christmas market. It might find you taking a break from sitting in the sun. It might find you in your most uncomfortable outfit, a little too full … Continue reading Just Another Love Letter →