Raine Fielder
Bio
Raine has been writing poetry since she was in seventh grade. She has written several poems, song lyrics, short stories and eight books. Writing is her main purpose.
rainefielder.com
I will NEVER use AI for anything I create.
Stories (103)
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OOPS!
I saw it in slow motion, Angie's arm going up into the air, her hand gripping her ice cream cone. The cone and ice cream separating from her hand, from each other. Tumbling down to the pavement in unceremonious somersaults, like an Olympic diver who had gotten drunk before their big moment.
By Raine Fieldera day ago in Humor
The Proust Effect
*Doot doot doo do* “Ugh,” came out muffled from under a white and pink blanket. *Doot doot doo do* “Stop!” the muffled voice said. But the chiming didn’t stop and the blanket flew off in a swift motion of the arm. Wren Alden sat up in a little bed, in the attic of the renamed Leona’s Yellow Bird Bed and Breakfast. Felix Thurman, one of the most successful Authors and Wren’s mentor had bought it, selling all he owned in the U.S. and naming it in honor of his late wife. The former owner and murderer Darcia Blackwood was in prison for murdering her sister Lucia. Lucia was resting in peace; ashes scattered at the shipwreck that had brought her and so many others to the island. Carmine, Wren’s partner in literal crime thanks to a break in, was off traveling the world researching for his next book. Or that was what he was supposed to be doing, but instead he was calling Wren in the middle of the night. For the fourth time this month.
By Raine Fielder4 days ago in Chapters
Frank-hearted and happy. Top Story - February 2026.
Four walls. That's all she had to look at, along with a dirt floor and the ceiling. The door had a small window with a little door that could be opened from the outside. But that hadn't happened much in the time she'd been in here.
By Raine Fielderabout a month ago in Fiction
Tea Time
Like every morning, Ester watched as trembling hands lifted the robin’s egg blue teapot and poured the amber liquid into a matching teacup. Louis’ hands were wrinkled, weathered, calloused from years of work. She still loved holding those hands across the small kitchen table as they talked. She remembered doing it for fifty years, the hands had changed but they felt the same. It was a good day when she could think back over the years. It was better in the mornings. The fog of sleep when she woke up lifted and she remembered his name, but in a couple hours it wasn’t guaranteed.
By Raine Fielder2 months ago in Fiction
