I always took my shoes off. I left them by the garage. Under the coffee table. At the bottom of the stairs. They slipped off within ten seconds of me entering the house. I curled my knees against my chest on the couch and felt like I was home. Like this was home.

Fiction

[November 17th, 2005]

Creative Nonfiction

He is going to kill both of us.

Creative Nonfiction

And maybe, tomorrow, I will paint the front door black.

Fiction

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Fiction

I could have sworn she wasn’t real.

Fiction

Death. The room smelt like death.