Bottles, half-alive mounds of clothing, sauce-stained plates, and dead cigarettes groan in a growing sea of torment. His children scream eerily, tearing round. Insane frenzy.
(Neighbors whisper. Shiftless.)
Blue eyes vacant, he sits in the wreckage, thinking of how she looked like a blooming tea rose before the casket shut.
Constance is addicted to writing, getting her inspiration from abandoned houses, panthers, and peanut butter.