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There are a lot of tragic stories. Another where some obscure white girl doesn’t get her way is hardly worth anyone’s pity. And that’s not what I’m here to tell you about, anyways. I’m here to tell you about my mother’s handbag.
And how that handbag, with its rough stitching and cultural-appropriating rainbow-coloured elephant print kept me alive on the night I was attacked.
The night that stranger took everything from me: mind, soul, and body.
No time for a shower. Grilled cheese for lunch, if they were lucky. Too late for order-in groceries. Could she order pizza? She could ask him to pick something up, but his trips to the grocery store always took twice as long and came with a bombardment of questions via text: “Which isle is that in again? Did you want the organic or the regular? What size diapers does she wear?” (Maybe if you changed them more often, you’d know!) And that was if he thought to text.
The tight press of bodies around him were just shapes, smelling of sweat and blood and the tang of stale urine. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, stifling a gag. The smell was on him now, like a baptism in a tainted stream that could not be washed by any number of holy prayers. The bodies around him shifted and murmured. They were animals in a cage, grumbling over the pangs of hunger and thirst.
The assassin crept through the shadows as though they were a part of him. Darkness draped around his shoulders like a comfortable coat. Foot
“I’m sorry,” she said after she blinked awake in her new body, Casper’s figure becoming clear in her vision.
“He fretted over her, his bro
“Sometimes I wonder which of us is more crazy,” she said through gritted teeth, the cold snowflakes making her cheeks feel thick and numb.
It was one of those uniquely hot, blue-skied days rarely seen in the northern Dutch province of Groningen. Normally, the sun was a screen of
“Take me back,” she said with a wistful gaze, and a hand played over loose strands of hair.
“I cannot,” they said, and dipped the pole agai
A short story, written in journal form, about a young person caught up in a murder case.
“Little prince!” Mother’s sing-song voice called, echoing up the stars.
“I’m coming!” I cried, anxiousness charging my steps as I bounded do