When we understand our anxiety - what do we do with that understanding?

Mr. Raven was reaching for a glass of wine when Mr. Gray came up from behind and clapped him on the shoulder. There was a crash and a deep red stain began its way down the white linen covering the table. Mr. Raven fumbled for his handkerchief.

         “Don’t bother, don’t bother,” Mr. Gray chuckled. “The maids will get it. Listen, Cirius, you’ve made quite a stir tonight.”

         “Have I?”

Being a writer means…

When I wake, my eyes are unseeing, swathed in some thick, black fabric. My hearing sharpens in response, ears straining. The only sound detected is a drip. Drip. Drip. I find that my hands slip free of their restraint easily, and I pull the blindfold from my face, every little hair on my body raised to attention.

I know I shouldn’t love you. From the moment you laid your frozen eyes on me, I knew it. But love is a funny thing, isn’t it? The way it curls around our minds and constricts, a viper preparing for the fatal strike. It worms through flesh, burying its coiled body into our hearts, teeth embedding in the spasming organ, filling us with poison.

The snowfall left a powder on the barren trees and gray buildings, breathing life back into the quiet town. With the cold weather came cold symptoms, shoveling an unforgiving slope of a driveway, wearing too many layers, sweating, stripping off a layer or two, shivering, and then you would be cold and sweaty at the same time. That’s how Melanie saw winter.