Every shot was like the branch of a metal tree snapping.
Few humans like to edit—until they’re procrastinating about writing.
It was the last picture he had taken of her. When morning came, she was gone.
Originally posted on New Romantics Press:
I hope you will all be staying up until past midnight to welcome in the new year. In our house my husband Dave leaves by the front door well before the first stroke of midnight carrying a a silver coin, bread, salt, coal, evergreen, and a wee dram, which…
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Civilization was slipping further and further away.
The phone shattered against the pavement.