Anna Currier

“About to be a junior in high school, Anna Currier is secretly a kefta-wearing dragon who has three main goals in life: to date a respectable version of Patrick Verona, to become a full time Young Adult fiction writer and to become Queen of Assassins. This Sarah J. Maas wannabe has won some 2nd place medals at state speech, best actress awards for One-Act and 1st place Fiction awards on TeenInk.com. She hopes to add New York Times Bestselling Author to that list.”




Selected Works:

“The Hunter”

A patchwork of blue lies across the skies and

Miniscule dots with wings soar through their soul

And land in a field of golden wheat where they rest

But a dragon in orange with a blade of metal held in both claws

Stalks towards its pray and curses fury with its eyes and—

I watch the fields of wheat swallow him in a gaping mouth of mud

As it chews, it rolls the hills and the cawing shards of midnight

Float up up away to the dimmed bulb of the sky


Excerpt from “The Dreams of a Devil”

I am suffocating beneath the weight of air. It presses me into the earth, between craggy red rocks and the hollow shells of those once like me who succumbed to the pressure and faded slowly away. Gravity is the only thing I know now.

But Flight, oh how I wish to know it again! Dreams of flight are what kept me alive, of the slow feeling of lifting into the air as wind grabs hold of you and takes you into the endless skies. Your toes tingle and your smile is endless and there is only happiness up up and away. Freedom spoke to me when I had great white wings that have since shriveled up into mangled, twisted, ashy bones still gripping my spine with crushing fingers. The gravity threatens to end them, to make them break their endless hold on me, but even then I could never be free.

Once I had the face of a porcelain doll, my cheeks blushing rose petals and my eyes whispering tales of the sea. But now, the red that was once my lips has taken over my face and become darker, oh so much darker. My eyes lost their hope and became full of hate for those who didn’t have their wings mangled, who didn’t lose their precious feathers of flight. I envy them with curdled passion.

I am stuck, lost on this terrible place they call Earth. All because I asked the Creator of everything to make me his equal, to move up from my endless place as a useless apprentice.

But sometimes, I can manage to suck enough air into my shriveled lungs and whisper to weak souls, seduce them and make them suffer down here with me when it is their time if only to quench my never-ending thirst for suffering.

Not so recently, I have found joy in watching the regret in their eyes as their lips become stiff and only their eyes can move, blinking wildly as though they are stunned that true hell exists, that I exist down in the crusted muck.


“A Letter to My Opposite Self (Who could easily be Donald Trump)”

Dear You,

We don’t agree on much except the dislike that crawls in between our two souls. Difference between two people is appreciated and I encourage it, but you want everyone to be the same, to be a bubbling mass of human with a thousand mouths that speak only hate of the unique and two thousand judging eyes that glare at me in the night. You clap slowly as you approach me, a smirk carving its way across your face of many nostrils that sniff for my fear, a fear that doesn’t exist. But you think it does. You are convinced it exists. You think everyone has to be afraid of you and with that fear, you rule your palace, this good green earth home to the strange, home to the sheep, home to those who balance on the edge wishing to fit in but they grew up in the wrong place or looked at the wrong someone with the passion of a deep fire in their eyes. So you push them away to the darkened side of the weird and unwanted. But I welcome them with open arms and though your smirk cuts through me, I stand tall.


“I am a Writer”

Telling me not to write was not wise on your part, Dad. Screaming that the places in my head are fake was not so nice, Grandmother. Calling me delusional and stupid and weird was not so friendly, Best Friend. Because this is who I am. Sent to therapy for thinking I’m a book character, sent out of the classroom for speaking the magical language of Na’vi, sent away by other 3rd graders because I liked books, not the latest toys.

Books are my language. I speak only what is written. No dad, no friends, no money, only books and a mother whom I love dearly, who feels like she has to bring me back to reality by reminding me that those places in my head are not real.

But I will never give this up. I am a writer. I’ve published stories and sewed my soul onto the pages of a book and won awards and I am no longer in the “teenage angst” phase where everything is about you and you have to stand out and choose a job that will piss off your parents. Maybe my stories will never have a published book of their own and maybe, I’ll have to get another job, but writing is my means of escape, of distracting myself from lack of emotion.

So do tell me I’m weird or delusional or stupid, but never tell me not to write.


Excerpt from “The Shadow”

The dagger was cool in Nira Armen’s hand, calming her racing pulse, as she shoved it through ribs and into the stuttering heart of the dwarfish male. A sickening crunch met the barely audible wisp of air leaving the man’s lungs, and with her left hand, Nira pushed him off of her dagger. His body stumbled backwards, dark blood trickling from the deep slash in his chest, and he landed heavily on the loose dirt of the road with a loud thump, his sword creating a piercing clang of protest against a rock next to him.

Serves him right, the female assassin thought, a smirk carving its way across the lower half of her dirt-smudged face. Having heard the short man brag to the barkeep that morning about “the lass he would ‘get’ next”, she’d been curious about his meaning and had listened intently to his plans on how to overpower the unsuspecting female later that day. Though Nira had orders to complete her current mission in so little time, she had hidden in the dense brush for nearly two hours before the barrel-chested midget finally sauntered past, a mere ten paces behind a young doe-like female with freckles and twin yellow braids that twirled down her back. As the girl, clueless to her pursuer, followed the bend of the road and left Nira’s sight, the assassin attacked the midget with practiced jabs and swipes that left him no time to shout.

Daring to study her new victim and still huffing from retreating bloodlust, she knelt down at his blood-soaked side and searched him for signs of movement finding nothing. Only the rusted sword he would’ve used to threaten the clueless girl was on his body. But, looking closer at him, she—recognized him. The man’s black hair curled defiantly around his ears and framed a rugged face, tan like leather from work in the sun. Watery brown eyes stared up to the skies of muted golds and reds of the nearly fallen sun that would once again rise in the morning unlike the murdered rapist. But there was something about his eyebrows, thick and knitted together even in death, that drew her to a memory of huddling together with her siblings underneath a thick cloak and—

The assassin stood up abruptly, sniffing at air tainted with the metallic scent of blood and now, the distinct dirt smell of horses. “Too late,” she whispered into the cool air of fall, eyes twinkling with the returning desire to kill. Possessing feline grace and hidden panic, Nira slinked off the blood-splattered road and into the bushes leaving behind a victim who didn’t leave a thick mucus-like layer of guilt on her mind like her “assignments” did. Crouched in the thicket, she peered through the leaves of a wild, angry plant, eager to finally get a good look at whoever had been tracking her all this time. And perhaps, figure out the best way to kill them.

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