A.V. Greene
Writer
Eventually I decided that I must have lost my body for good. I have to believe that if I still had a body, whatever spark of a consciousness I had left would be frantically trying to preserve it, to bring me back to it.
But no. I’m incapable of worrying about the future. Another surprisingly painful loss.
But no. I’m incapable of worrying about the future. Another surprisingly painful loss.
I’d never wanted a gun in the house. I’d lectured Rob that we were much more likely to die from gun violence because of it, but I’d never dreamed I’d shoot him myself. Or that he’d beg me to.
Was this another fucked-up part of growing up that no one bothered to warn you about? Did everyone have a monster and just hid it better than we could?
She’s been eating her house again and regrets it. Her head hurts, her gums are inflamed, and her face is numb from what she suspects is a touch of hypoglycemia. She’s too old for so much sugar, especially on an empty stomach.
The Dragon is complicit as hell in this ridiculous apocalypse, and she resents having to pretend otherwise.
Haunted, yes, but with caveats. There is no sinister wrought iron gate curling beneath a thick curtain of thorny vines, no grand staircase, no servants’ quarters, no lurid plantation history. And while there are plenty of crows and vultures circling overhead, they’re really only here for the plentiful I-30 road kill.
Now everyone knows better than to get caught being nice to you. You’re something dangerous, something untouchable, something somehow not the same as you were when you woke up this morning.
You can’t see the wolf yet because you don’t know you’re supposed to be looking for it.
Some of the younger people, who had never seen frost, mistook it for snow.