The floor of our minivan was covered in sheets of paper, a sea of black stars and pentagrams. I smoothed the creases of my black
George Maxwell was up at four in the morning again. He pulled his pale, lumpen frame out of bed and shuffled towards the walk-in shower.
Ivy fingers keep coming back to me. In their gentle grasp life felt whole. Pieces held together firmer in their place. Twisting around my body
I open my eyes, but it’s still dark. I think that perhaps I have forgotten how to operate my eyelids and bring my hands up
He walks slightly, very, drunk, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. His coat collar is turned up against the cold and
The year is 2070, she died in 2069. And now the scene was finally set. He had held on for what to him was an