Cryer's Cross

So, ah, I'm not sure if you know this, but you're not wearing a shirt." "Distracting, isn't it?

It's the intent, not the word, that makes something harsh.

I highly regret this day in advance.

If you want to touch me, Kendall, touch me. Don't hide behind those little girl slaps.

Jacian Obregon. It sounds like a melody. Or a tragedy.

A trapped soul waits for redemption. It waits. And waits. For her to take her last breath.

WE We feel the heat, and for a moment, We believe! Life is back. But this heat is intense, not gentle. Not submissive but searing. Painful. We moan, scream, Our face cracking like gunfire... like a whip. Thirty-five, one hundred. One hundred! ONE HUNDRED! The fire consumes our wooden host. It burns, breaks, explodes. Releases Our remaining souls to travel to Our final resting places. Or. To find new places to hide. And wait. Touch me.

Go force your condescending man-logic on the next house. You can go now.

WE When it is over, we breathe and ache like old oak, like peeling birch. One of Our lost souls set free. We move, a chess piece in a dark room, cast-iron legs moving a centimeter at a time, crying out in silent carved graffiti. Calling to Our next victim, Our next savior. We carve on Our face: Touch me. Save my soul.

Jacián!" She yells again, and then she says something in Spanish. A moment later he comes down the hallway. "I'm going to tell Grandfather you said that," he says. "What do you want?

She knows some of her thoughts are irrational. She knows it and has always known it, even in fifth grade, when she used to layer on clothes - four shirts, three pairs of underwear, shorts under her jeans - anxiously, frantically crying her eyes out for fear people could see her naked through her clothes. What an awful time that was. Fear like that is constant, tiring.