Fiction

The manner of my demise is of little interest, besides serving as our jumping off point.

The world must appear strange as you peer through our hero’s eyes. Your eyes now.

I had a kind of premonition, even before a word was said, that things were about to shift.

That so much night could exist within a city entranced me.

Unrelenting snow, bottomless drinks, unexpected acquaintances, and strange sights.

It’s weird how hitting the ground doesn’t really hurt.

I once mistook loving a story for loving a person.

At night she would try to dig her way out, and I would pull my stitches tighter, snipping off the tips of her fingers. 

Fiction is a more subtle and sophisticated revenge porn.