Jessi Skrade

In a tiny, dusty store with strange operational hours, a young woman with a plant’s name was cradling a wire duck and her dreams, both crushed. While a store packed with old

A youngish man in an oilskin coat scratched his red beard and leaned on the railing of the lighthouse – his lighthouse, with black ivy crawling up the whitewashed sides. Dark clouds quilted the

LET ME OUT! June felt a screech rise from the back of her head. She pinched her eyes shut and shook her head irritably. Stacks of order forms and their meaningless words swam

It is an undeniable truth that in the small hours of the morning, reality becomes distorted. Sometimes a fairly strong breeze sets in, strong enough to make the leaves on the trees shiver and rattle like the bones of long-forgotten creatures, ancient and mysterious.

Eric Davis hunched over the counter of the hardware store and examined the mouse trap under the greenish fluorescent lighting, running his fingers over the delicately crossing wires that formed the mesh walls.