Sick child

Red Jello

You can write, I tell him. He talks about inspiration, and I tell him that stories ask to be written everywhere you go. Sometimes they mix with memories and experiences. The waitress pours us both another cup of coffee. She has the same colour hair as me and is about the same size as me. The rain is heavy outside …

Occult

Tongue

“I write to prisoners” she says, trying to shock or intrigue me. She nods towards the letters, open and pinned, boring like butterflies, to a cork board near her odd little writing desk. I could have guessed this kind of self-made nuance about her, had I spent the time to think of her more than somewhere to sleep that wasn’t …