Oftentimes, it simply makes one more accepting, with the in their eye blinding them temporarily to the faults they usually won’t find acceptable.
It was Burning Day.
Rose was ten the first time she had a glimpse of The Book. She knew that the chest was to come to her - it was passed on to the eldest child of the current holder - but it was only on that spring afternoon that she was able to take a look at what’s inside.
Turns out, everyone else’s secrets are too much for me.
Each dot represents a year of life.
The colour of her blood was the least of my worries, though.
A part but apart
They call me Witch.
It's very admirable, if a bit misinformed.
And now the idiot fish died and all I’m left with are fucking spiders.