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Creation
Daffodil stems mingle with tendrils of baby-fine hair, A crown above her fresh face. Eyes gaze at the world, anew. She makes her verdant bed among lush loam, The dew-spotted grass tickling her wiggly toes. The maiden stands, wobbles, and takes her first step. She falls, laughs– The sweetness of hyacinth breath lingers. Then she…
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Special Sneak Peek at My Next Horror Short Story
Flushed Mom sleeps in my sock drawer. I suppose if I were a better daughter, I would clean out the socks that don’t have matches or the ones with holes in them. At least the socks are clean, which is more than I can say about my old mother. She is a courteous inhabitant of…