Interview About Who Is Brown Girl?

Wow yeah, I was interviewed a while back about my story. If you're interested in how Brown Girl came into being here it is!

Interview with Isabella Kestermann: Winter 2019 Flash Fiction Contest Third Place

That Goddam Beauty Mark

I Won A Contest!

Hey All!  I won 3rd place in a flash fiction contest! You can read the winning story HERE (just scroll down till you see my face.)

An interview should be coming out shortly!

The City

The city was a pretty thing, even when it was half submerged in swamp water. Every building was made out of obsidian black, which glinted darkly in the sun and shone like tombstones in the mist. The people were also black, black clothes, black hair, black lips. The only thing that wasn’t black was their skin, which shone whiter then bleached bone. On good days, you could see the streets bustling with people getting to work, children to school, shopkeepers to their shop. The best day was always Halloween, when the city would set up competitions for the best costumes. The worst days would fill the city with mud and water. People dragged their feet to work, and some wouldn’t even try, falling into the mud and curling, curling, curling into themselves until they were nothing more then a fetus. Children would cry as they walk, their brown tears staining their cheeks and mothers would throw their handkerchiefs from the windows and watch them wash away in the water.  When night fell, fights…


“The temperature dropped on Friday and ever since then I’ve been cold. But not the skin deep kind of cold, you know? It’s like something deep inside me froze and I’ve been breathing frost ever since.” Charlotte didn’t look at me as she said this, even as she handed me the next cup to dry. “By Saturday I had to pull out my blankets and jacket just to keep myself from freezing over.” Her hands stopped moving in the sink. Her eyes staring out the window seem to take a forlorn look as though she was watching some bittersweet memory in the sky. I had been staying over at her place for the past two nights. Ever since she came back from her accident. Her family couldn’t afford to take her in but they also couldn’t afford to send her to the ER again if something happened. So they hired me as a stay at home nurse. Charlotte had been so sweet, so open to me. I wondered how long she had been living alone. “I found his sweater,” she said. Her words were soft, private. I asked her to repeat the…

A Kir Royal

“So, do you want ice cream?” Shirtless asked. We were sitting in a bar, it was late at night, and almost everyone had gone home. The bartender was wiping down tables, collecting broken glasses off the floor and wounded soldiers from chairs and toilet seats. Who takes a drink to the bathroom? The man sitting next to me was shirtless and I may have been too drunk to decently say, but I thought he looked damn good like that. I would have asked him to come home with me but “home” was lacking a definition at the moment. In my hand was a Bloody Mary, half finished. The other half was sitting in my stomach, giving me the buzz I needed to chase away my thoughts until morning. I’m sorry, let me correct myself. It wasn’t a buzz. It was a horde of angry wasps. I didn’t want those thoughts to come back. Ever. I had walked into that bar with every intent to drink until I passed out and choked on my own vomit. And I was well on my way too, until some dumbass took my purse with every last remaining…

No. 7: Part 1

Neco, Neco, Neco. The Latin chant hums through my head, blocks any thoughts, any emotions, any memories. The ladle feels heavy in my hands, why do I have that again? I lift it to my head. The handle is covered in apple juice. My hand is covered in apple juice. I scream and drop the ladle. It thermoses until it hits the floor. Bits of liquid splatter everywhere, covering my feet, my legs, my face. I can taste something metallic on my tongue. The chanting grows louder and louder, closer and closer. A scalpel steps from the darkness, its body teetering left and right as it moans. The ladle is stuck in its chest. It’s leaking apple juice. No, it’s leaking blood. I killed that man.
I am a computer. I’ve been programmed to do only one thing. Kill or be killed. There are a thousand of ways to achieve this goal, but in the end, the objective is the same. My programmer and caretaker Scythe calls me Septem or Sept for short. I’m the seventh of his creations, the newest in his series of killing …