Pastry chef by day, insomniac writer by night.
Find here: stories that creep up on you, poems to stumble over, and the weird words I hold them in.
Or, let me catch you at www.suzekay.com
It's hot. The air is still and dead. A sour stink creeps up from the beach as seaweed crisps up on the stovetop sand. We sit on the porch, three of us shaded in Adirondack chairs, Stella sprawling in the sun on the steps. A pitcher of iced coffee sweats on the plant stand in the corner. Ice cubes clink and swirl in our glasses as we swig.
By Suze Kay3 years ago in Horror
All of the fentanyl is missing. Dr. Lawrence sits before me with her head in her hands. From beyond the curtain behind her, the moans continue.
By Suze Kay3 years ago in Fiction