Then you will vanish—becoming Amma, Chachi, Mami. No one will remember your name.
I made my first kite out of white paper scraps; on my 16th birthday, it came to me that they needed a pop of color.
I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth
The cream colored bowl held the steaming, almost translucent yellow broth with traces of white, garnished by an array of green onions slashed in an angle.
The rain began at dusk, its cold fingers tracing the cracked panes of the house like an unwelcome visitor. By midnight, the storm had grown wild, wind howling through the trees, rattling the fragile bones of the dwelling. I stood before the door, my hand trembling on the tarnished brass handle.
He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible
Mother woke before sunrise with the weight of the house pulling at her bones and moved against the cold floor, the chill biting at her ankles. In the corner hung the gutted rabbit, its blood pooling on the floor. Her fingers trembled, as she bathed herself in it, coating her skin red.
Chaos. More chaos.
In a world spun from the threads of chaos, we are born into a tapestry of shadows. We are shimmering maidens in the night, nurturing within us a fire both subtle and strong. Yet, the air around us is heavy with whispers–danger and desire intertwined.
Then you will vanish—becoming Amma, Chachi, Mami. No one will remember your name.
I made my first kite out of white paper scraps; on my 16th birthday, it came to me that they needed a pop of color.
I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth
The cream colored bowl held the steaming, almost translucent yellow broth with traces of white, garnished by an array of green onions slashed in an angle.
The rain began at dusk, its cold fingers tracing the cracked panes of the house like an unwelcome visitor. By midnight, the storm had grown wild, wind howling through the trees, rattling the fragile bones of the dwelling. I stood before the door, my hand trembling on the tarnished brass handle.
He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible
Mother woke before sunrise with the weight of the house pulling at her bones and moved against the cold floor, the chill biting at her ankles. In the corner hung the gutted rabbit, its blood pooling on the floor. Her fingers trembled, as she bathed herself in it, coating her skin red.
In a world spun from the threads of chaos, we are born into a tapestry of shadows. We are shimmering maidens in the night, nurturing within us a fire both subtle and strong. Yet, the air around us is heavy with whispers–danger and desire intertwined.
Chaos. More chaos.
If you travel on a bus, always take the window seat.
