Category: Personal work

Talk to Me

Seventeen years old and here I am, sitting at a small, corner coffee table, glaring at the menu and praying that the waitress waiting to take my order doesn’t notice the unshed tears I’m fruitlessly trying to blink into submission.

I am not going to cry. I’m not. I’m seventeen for Gods sake. Not five. Not lost and alone without any means of communicating. No. This place is familiar. This place is safe. This menu I know like the back of my hand. Have read it a thousand times. Can recite in my sleep for crying out loud.

Late Lines

You’re late. Except you’re not that late so it’s okay. It’s nothing to make a fuss over because everyone is late sometimes, right?

A Short Story: The Price

His eyes fell on her, still so bright, and she felt that shiver from so long ago creep back through her. Back through the tips of her ngers and her lips, where she sometimes still felt the burn of his soul.