End of Days as the Dairy Queen by Morgana MacLeod
Momma wears her memories like a ratty robe, worn patches rubbed shiny on the seat, diverse stains obscuring the lapels.
Momma wears her memories like a ratty robe, worn patches rubbed shiny on the seat, diverse stains obscuring the lapels.
After a night of rotisserie sleep, turning over and over your firepit bed, you wake weary, ashes in your hair, heart pumping sludge. Even tinsel wilts in the heat, humidity suffocating sparkle.