It's an endless winter where I live. The howling wind creeps beneath my parka as I drag the body between walls of naked pines. Their branches reach up like nerve cells, desperate for sensation but cursed to only experience this cutting cold. It's perpetual dusk where
The party is in full swing by the time you arrive. You sink into the brown couch whose floral pattern is all but a memory buried by stains. Facing the TV a tattooed hand passes you a lukewarm Coors. The sound it makes as you crack the can open is
The house sat unoccupied for what seemed like an eternity, and rumors swirled around it like spectral mist. It was a ranch home built in the seventies, all brown and beige and shag carpet. The occupants had vacated on November first leaving a Beistle black cat decoration, its back perpetually