Row From The Heart

There is a specific kind of trauma in the mundane—the shadow of a wooden spatula, the physical memory of gagging, the way a routine check-up curdles into a battlefield. It’s messed up because it’s a betrayal of trust disguised as "for your own good." The doctor doesn’t just break her will; he enjoys the breaking. He notices her beauty, then he destroys her dignity. It’s a predatory gaze masked by a medical license.

It’s the neutrality that kills me. How can you say "your child is dead" in the same tone you’d use to tell someone their car is ready for pickup? ​ Looking back at Dickie asking about the grass and the rain... it’s physically painful. He’s just a curious little boy, and every "why" is basically a nail in his coffin. His dad’s silence wasn't just being grumpy; it was pure, quiet dread. He knew . That drink.   It’s supposed to be "medicine" for a test, but it feels like a betrayal. A sweet taste right before they rip his mind apart. ​" Where would you like the body?" No "we're sorry," no "this is hard." Just a government fee and a burial request. It makes my skin crawl. ​ He was so excited for those presents. Now they’re just sitting in a room that’s going to stay empty forever. ​Honestly?  If thinking too much and asking "why" is a crime, I’d be the first one gone. It’s that terrifying thought that...

I'm scarred for life... but fascinated. I have a fear of dolls(pediophobia), which made the plot of this tale even more unsettling.  It’s the way he thinks he’s saving them. That’s what’s rotting in my mind. He looks at a vibrant, messy, living girl and sees something 'broken' that only he can 'fix' by making her sit still forever. My skin feels tight just thinking about it.  Because I have this fear, every mention of a glass eye or a stiff limb feels like a needle prick. He isn't just a collector; he’s a taxidermist of the spirit. He wants the world to be a shelf where nothing ever moves, nothing ever changes, and nothing ever leaves him. The stillness isn't peace. It's a scream that’s been painted over with a smile.

There are some stories you finish… and then there are stories that stay. This one didn’t just stay—it lingered, like a shadow in the corner of the room that you keep checking, just in case it moved. Arnold Friend. I still can’t get him out of my head. At first, he almost feels ridiculous. The way he talks, the way he looks—it’s slightly off, slightly strange. But then something shifts. The more he speaks, the more the air changes. It’s like watching something reveal itself slowly, and realizing too late that it was never harmless to begin with. There’s this quiet dread that builds. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… inevitable. Connie feels so real. That in-between space—wanting to be seen, wanting attention, playing at being older than she is. And then suddenly she’s faced with something she doesn’t understand, can’t control, and can’t escape from. That’s what made it so terrifying for me. Not anything supernatural. Not anything graphic. Just a girl, a house, a man outside—and ...

How much can one achieve  in a little life?  a life so small  How do you go about the day  always getting in your own way?  Clinging to skyscrapers tall  Your friends are there  yet you don't know why they care  Jumping from fire escapes  you're so used to the fall  The bruises, broken bones, bleeding  you think they don't see  when you've held the shining thing  to your torn-up skin  a certain kind of dependency  You let yourself shiver  in spite of the arms that long  to cradle you Cry yourself a river  until your hollow spaces  leave no traces  Forlorn jungle eyes gaze at portraits  that, despite their beauty,  bring you shame  soothes and destroys just like your name  because you were baptised  in the kind of water  that doesn't cleanse  but drowns  What colours do you use to paint  a lost cause  who's also a patron saint?...

A child’s disappearance, and the questions that never stop echoing It was early in the year 2000 when she disappeared. While a storm raged outside, Asha Degree left her warm bed and stepped into the icy cold. In the middle of the night, nine years old and alone, she slipped out of her home with a backpack on her shoulders — no hat, no coat, nothing to keep her small body warm. Inside the house, Asha’s family slept, unaware of her exit. Several hours earlier, the town of Shelby had been plunged into pitch black darkness when a car struck a power pole. When the power came back on, her father, Harold, checked on his children. Asha shared a room with her brother, O’Bryant, and although he saw her get up to use the bathroom at around 2:30 a.m., he did not see her leave later — only heard the sound of the bed squeaking. Asha was a shy but spirited little girl, with parents and a brother who adored her. By all accounts, she was happy, and there were no problems at home or at scho...