I have a new story that was published in the Flame Tree July Newsletter.
This piece came from a discussion about creativity with my partner. We had both been struggling to get to sleep due to the unusually warm weather, and how that lack of good rest had made it harder to write.
You don’t remember the first night she came. Witches, like regrets, arrive softly, slipping through the cracks of your mind to take root in the dark places where memory blurs into myth.
Her name was Sapana, though names were slippery things when it came to her kind. She smelled of overripe flesh, and when she smiled stolen dreams flickered between her teeth like dying stars.
At first, you didn’t notice the theft. You’d wake with the ghost of something dissolving on your tongue; a sensation of wings, a whisper of laughter, the echo of a kiss that never was. By morning, only a sense of loss lingered. But the words that once danced at your pen stayed silent and still. Your work suffered.
