The Echoes of the Whispering Meadows

A short story | “How do you like to be loved, Santana?”

Days of Blues

You’re a bottle of a storm cloud. That’s what you are and you’ll forever be fucked.

The Great Runaway

A Flash Fiction The doorbell rang; a 12-year-old is on the run. The follies made the rush more fun. Anytime now, in the sun-drenched alleyway, the slender stretchable arms will catch her by surprise.  And at last, the point of no return!  "Oi! juvenile. I’m your childhood." Oh, what are the odds?

looking glass

You whispered, "Does it still matter?" I don't remember answering within a sixty-second time frame—not that I am planning to produce an abled response right after that. Honestly, for a moment, I also forgot about your statement that ended in a question mark. I looked at the attic walls that are now painted carnation pink.…