Everything’s dark, nothing is bright,” the child sang, “No one can stop us on Halloween night.” Evelyn smiled. “This is our night, this is our street, give us some money, or candy to eat.” The.

The living have enough to worry about these days without the dead coming back to complicate things.

All these moments, even the less pleasant ones, are snapshots we can never replace once they’re lost, and it leaves us wishing for just the slightest glimpse of them.

Blanky. Such an innocuous name for something that had now cemented itself as the locus of my grief and horror and rage.

Heaven Is An Orchard Though Its Roots Wind Down To Hell.

I may have lost my mind for a time, but grief makes everyone crazy. Losing someone makes you lose yourself, makes you yearn for the impossible: one more day with the lost, an end to the pain, a cure for the spiritual malaise that eats you alive every morning you wake up alone. It makes you believe in wishes and other places.

Everything isn’t dead. Only gone.

Without proof of an afterlife, they were intimately aware of their mortality and the limitations of it.

All my talent, if that’s what you’d call it, goes only one way these days. Into the worst kind of darkness.

Surely even the monsters would respect another animal’s need to defend itself.