The whisper of my dress stung against sunburned thighs.
Content Warning: domestic violence
Anton jumped at the sound of the doorbell. The Seth Thomas clock above the fireplace read 11:57.
Only ax murderers ring doorbells at midnight. Continue reading
Florence watched through the window, as the lamplighter worked down the street. The methodical routine soothed her jangled nerves. The man bent to twist the knob and start the gas flowing, then reached up with the pole-mounted lighter. He pulled a lever and the striker sparked. A cheery glow spilled across the cobblestones as he moved onto the next post. Twist. Spark. Glow. Repeat. Continue reading
The headlamp – a Radiant 475 – was the best money could buy. The light disappeared into the abyss, the tight beam turning fuzzy, before it was swallowed by nothingness. Continue reading
If midnight was the Witching Hour, then 3AM was the Hour of Self Loathing. A litany of conditioning and doubt – stupid, ugly, worthless. Coward. Flagellating myself in the darkness, the list marched circles in my head.
Image: Text is from the “About Us” section of a local florist’s website, most blacked out. Remaining text reads: