Fiction

The Life He Said Was Mine
The breeze played with my hair, sending a strand over my eyes. I pulled it away and frowned. The once midnight-black mane had now some white strands. I flipped my head to the side, looking at the waterfall of salt and pepper. When did this happen? I reached to brush my fingers through it, but a veiny hand came in
In The Eye of The Beholder
They think I’m depressed because I refuse to leave this bed. I’m not. I put the tray on the table next to me. They want me to eat, but I don’t need food. The birds chirp on the tree at the window in front of me. If I stare long enough, the voices of the people around me will fade