This place is littered with mirrors, broken and new alike. My reflections always talk to me. They make faces as they speak threats. Fables. Myths. The limitations of my life narrated by the mouth of these reflected apparitions. I stop. I listen. I stare. My hair turns from gold to coal, my eyes, from hazel, they become nothing but voids. I am one with the mirrors. I mimic those who look on.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories (reconstructed)
Historia CortaThis is a reconstructed anthology of the randomly generated stories I had in mind during 2015. (Read segment title for the list of unsettling content in each category)
