Flash fiction
The mirror’s cracked; my reflection fractures into pieces. She’s already waiting for me on…
Some find my death beautiful …
A short story
I’m not supposed to be here.
A vignette
The chair was empty, save for the way your hand once rested on its arm, a ghost’s weight…
There’s a hum in the air that never stops. Constant, like the sky itself is…
I watch the dust settle on the table, soft as dead skin, a thin film of years turning…