The gift and power of writing is forgotten far too often. I will remember.
The sun heats my eyelids. I wish there were tears. I fail to hold back the dry sob. A glowing 7.16 begs me, rise. I turn away.
By Brant Waden3 years ago in Humans
3. Your strength when you cry I blurt it out. Luna halts, mid-word. Cleo's eyes widen. I search for the consolations I'd prepared, the paternal promises.
Nan is late. Again. Not even death cures chronic lateness in some people. I return to the horror story. Heavy footsteps.
By Brant Waden3 years ago in Horror