The low bird is not picked tenderly out of the dust by its fellows; rather, it is dispatched quickly and without mercy.
Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust...
I wanted to write a balls-to-the-wall supernatural horror story, something I haven't done in a long time.
never's the word God listens for when he needs a laugh.
We don't know the days that will change our lives. Probably just as well.