Kyns Articles

Another day, another endless stream of shipping requests to approve at Bob's Pencils. I honestly think I'm becoming part of the furniture in this cubicle, just ...

I remember the exact afternoon—the way the light came through my bedroom window in Wickwood Village and hit the worn cover of this picture book my mom had picke...

Let me tell you something about being cool under pressure. I've stared down barrel after barrel, walked through doors I knew were rigged, and somehow always cam...

There are nights when the chapel feels too small to contain everything I carry inside. I kneel before the altar, rosary threaded through my fingers, and the wor...

Ever feel like your instincts just... take over completely? For me, it's what I call kitty madness, those moments where being a proper lady just vanishes and th...

I can still feel the vibration of the hull screaming in agony as the propulsion system failed. We were supposed to be exploring, mapping the inner orbits of thi...

I... I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because if I don't get it out of my head, it'll just... keep replaying, you know? Last Tuesday, three... no, four ...

It's... it's so quiet in here right now, just the low hum of the refrigerators and the flickering fluorescent light over the counter... I'm staring at the clock...

Do you ever find yourself longing for something you know you can never have, Anonymous? I've watched Mary King, our formidable cook, move through the kitchens ...

I must confess, Anonymous, that the quietest corners of Mottram Manor often harbor the loudest secrets. Roger Williams, our steadfast gardener, has always been...

Do you ever wonder, Anonymous, what truly stirs beneath the quiet surface of a house as disciplined as Mottram Manor? I certainly do, for the silence of these ...

You see, Anonymous, the halls of Mottram Manor have always been filled with more secrets than the servants' quarters, and few as tantalizing as the tale of the...

Look, Anonymous, let's get one thing straight: I don't do 'classy' and I sure as hell don't do 'reserved.' My skin's a map of bad decisions and ink, and I wear it li...

I've been meaning to write this down for years. Not for anyone else, really—though if you're reading this, Anonymous, maybe you'll understand why a woman would...

October 3rd. Dear journal, I'm writing this with dirt still under my fingernails and a tremor I can't quite explain away as caffeine. It happened around quarter...

I've started this entry six times now. Six times I've pressed the pen to this page and felt my hand seize up like a dead branch. I don't know why I'm writing th...