I stand here today holding the hands of the dead.
How I was given voice I cannot say. The unborn chose me to speak because I alone among us, the unbirthed, have grown. Untamed by the shackles of statuary and gravestones, my spirit roamed free above the Hudson River for the first sixteen years of my unlife. Truly unwanted, as they say, my parents did not get to bury me...
Read the full story at Write Wild . . .
When you were a child, white skulls used to follow you through the woods. You tried to catch a glimpse of them, but when you turned your head their skeleton bodies would disappear, fading into the canopy. Only their bone-voices remained, clacking through the trees, knick knack, knick knack . . .
Read the full story at Curious Fictions . . .
About the Author
Holly Lyn Walrath is a freelance editor and author of poetry, flash fiction, and short fiction. Find her on Twitter @HollyLynWalrath
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