I made spaghetti for supper. A bad day, you said. You needed a soak. Your last words as you breezed past me. Moments later the bathtub faucet came on an army of water pouring out marching through your windpipe and seizing your soul.   With a shaky hand, I twisted the doorknob. You, in your…

This content is for Basic Member, Friends of Burningword 3-Day Pass, Friends of Burningword 3-Month Subscription, and Friends of Burningword Annual Subscription members.
Log In Register
%d bloggers like this: