Each year on December 5th, a person in my hometown is brutally murdered. The police are at a loss. With each victim, a poetic story is left behind. Below are the stories from the past three years. * * * * * * Fredrik loved to smile, for he was …
I don’t think I’ve ever told this story before. I’ve done my best to repress the memories of that year of my life. Maybe I’ve vaguely referenced certain aspects about the ordeal here and there. It would have been impossible not to, considering its impact, but I’ve never regaled it …
I’ve had this problem for as long as I can remember. In preschool, I remember being confused when they told us there were seven days in a week, because I could only ever count six. I’ve never told anyone this, not even my wife, so I’ve never really been able …
This is only happening because of what we did. I regret it, but not because of the consequences. I regret it because I could have been good; I should have been kind. I think we deserve this. Think of it like Carrie — you remember that movie? Except not. Not at …
I found this note, nailed onto a tree on my front lawn. I really don’t know how to describe it. I’ll just let you read it yourself. [Note start] I saw you today. It was your birthday. You didn’t see me. You hardly ever do these days. Your skin looked …
