Marked for Death
I don't like bourbon. The one time I was offered it and consumed it, was immediately followed by involuntary discharge of my stomach contents.
But I've heard people talk about it.
And I think the best bourbon would taste the way Emma Ruth Rundle sounds.
Smoky, heavy, smooth.
Embers of smoldering relationships, releasing their smoke.
The effort of coping with life trying to wrench itself.
The warmth follows in it's laminar wake as you trace memories.
As Emma puts it in “Protection”
Hush now, here there is no trouble
Quiet down, you know that I have got you
But I’m spinning out into a bottle
Where’s my connection to you
It’s my protection.
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Mumma!
I hear the cry when I am not in the same room when you open your eyes. I roll my eyes , dropping whatever I was doing. Here comes the first in the series of commands for the day. I see you rubbing your eyes, asking if you have to go to school, and the look of sheer sadness that f...
Untitled
The chocolate was left at her doorstep—no note, no wrapper, just a perfect square with a faint gold shimmer.
