melody-chan

Master of Ravens 1 My little brother is nine years old the first time I decide to kill him. During the night, snow fell over the jagged wreckage of our land. In the morning I realize he will follow me outside if I call to him. Like an awkward-limbed colt he'll stumble through the snowdrifts, and I can leave him to the ice and wind in the shadow of a three-walled building. No one will see me. Our father will think he has gotten lost on his own. I too will cry when they find his body. When the mourning is done, however, I will be my father's true and only son. 'Cam,' he will call to me, and I'll kneel down before him. My father. Master of

In the early hours, when he is still asleep, she begins counting the tiny black and white tiles plastered to the ceiling of their flat. Some are chipped, some are covered by a layer of dust, and some are not tiles at all, but cockroaches in disguise. By 143 he has stretched his arms and kissed her neck, by 206 he has tied his shoes and lit a cigarette, and by 262 he's always gone. She knows that the smell of coffee will dissipate by 329 and that if she can bother getting out of bed to call her worried mom for once, or even just go to the damn bathroom, he will be back by 2338. If she counts slowly. -- Sometimes, late at night, when she has

"You said you wanted the reverse stripped out of you, and that's all I left you with." V. Kingston Upon Thames How do fancy it? And do you fancy it at all? Does it have geography and are we grey? Do we have   a time, do we have   a place? (I am turning British corners and you are there,     middle-aged.) I will hear our language drown in their heavy tongues. I will search for their consonants in vain, and they will call     me foreign when I hit mine         too hard. I will search for you, middle- aged. We will not look like writers then. (We look like    hell; we look like         authors.) We will be worn dow