Sometimes, I like to walk through fire

Just to see you again.

Your faces are burned into my memory, like the fire

That took your furry bodies from me.

I go to that bedroom, and play fetch with you

My ninja cat, you were too trusting to escape.

You wait for me in that apartment, forever.

Maybe when I die I can finally let you out and we can walk to ocean together.

I miss you, Sax

On a street corner in Virginia,

There is man who will chase you

Away from corners

Where you beg for money,

So he can write love songs for random strangers.

He plays all day without an audience at first

Because his music is not composed for sitting down.

It flows with the packed street of Virginia

Smooth, like the waves of the beach it coats the air

In audible notes that tell more of a story than

I could ever tell, with my silly notes

With words thrown like darts,

Trying to create an image

That is created instantly when he puts his lips

To that sax.

They say her name is Laura

I used to read short stories, by a girl named Laura. She was my favorite author for awhile. She published her short stories on a blog she managed online, or so I thought. I can't read her stories anymore, because I found out the truth about who she is, and why she writes. One of the things I used to love about her work, is how real it was. She would write horror stories about fires and murder and you would swear she had experienced everything she was writing, it was so real. I used to wonder how she developed such a craft for horrific imagination.

Then one night, the illusion was broken. She posted something that at first sounded like another amazing story, but it wasn't. It was a note. A note begging for help.

Here is the note.

Dear Stranger,

I am finally lucid enough, to be able to ask for your help. I am a published author of what people believe to be horror stories that come out of the imagination of a writer with strange ideas.

I am not. I have been living in a abandoned office building for the past ten years. My stories seem real because I have a rare kind of disorder, when I panic I forget who I am. A man I dated discovered this and decided to try an experiment, with my life. He would trigger my panic and then program me to believe everything you read was real.

He would keep me from running, by feeding me poison. I wrote out my nightmares while spun out for days on end. I was rewarded with dark spoons of sleep.

Please help, I don't even know who I am anymore.

Laura.

I looked at the picture and almost threw up. Had I never seen her before?

Staring back at me, was my face. I vomited and burned all of her books. I don't read anymore.