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Unorthodox Saints: PrologueThe woman wakes up afraid. She had been dreaming of the old house in New Orleans again; the Garden District. She had seen the woman sitting on the porch; her green eyes, red high heels. She’s seen the man with blank eyes. The child in the garden, her arms full of flowers, thin and marked by bruises.Unorthodox Saints: Prologue
And even now in this quietly cool bedroom, laying next to her husband in this big modern townhouse overlooking London she feels that old alarming disorientation. She’d been talking with that man standing on the porch. Yes, someone must help that child.
No, this is just a dream. I want to get out of it. &nb
by ~lawrencevaughan
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- Current Residence: Ottawa
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--
Writers are liars, my dear. Surely you know that by now.
Amuse me?
--
Writers are liars, my dear. Surely you know that by now.
--
Writers are liars, my dear. Surely you know that by now.
--
the truth about lying is everyone does it
and perhaps they should.
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the truth about lying is everyone does it
and perhaps they should.
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"Making the world a better place, one delusion at a time."
ProsePlease-WordCount-fotoFriday
--
the truth about lying is everyone does it
and perhaps they should.
--
the truth about lying is everyone does it
and perhaps they should.
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