The House You walk over to the gate, run your hand over the rough, cold metal, rusted with age and weathering. You give it a push, it sticks, you push harder. It gives way with a grating sound, like nails on a chalkboard. You remember your grade four English teacher doing the same to get… Continue reading Part Seven: The House
Past Life I roll your name around on my tongue like one of the raspberry candies my grandmother used to give me. Sticky sweet, bursts of flavor sliding down my throat, your name reminds me of another time, a past life.