Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,
and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Pity.
His absence remained with her like the chill of a room too large to warm. A dread descended, silver-cold; shadows lingered and caressed; drew knowing looks from unknown guests; pity, pity the dispossessed. She plunged into a lake of ice, her broken mind at last at rest.
