𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓝𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓮𝔃 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓸𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝓲𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓼, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓾𝓷𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝓾𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹-𝓼𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓭𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮...

The door creaked, a complaint from a throat that had seen too many winters. A kind of chill that went straight to the marrow, a cold spot, drop in the air. With a sliver of moonlight, thin as a...

...the dust of ghosts   now motes of quiet memoryof what came before    that the sun illuminatesfor just a moment   until the world settlesinto haunting notes

Letting the good times roll, awakening, out of the ground. It wasn't a tulip, but a mangy dame with a buffet buried in Kentucky Blue Grass. Clawing her way out of the grave-yard grim on a bad road covered...