by M. Saffron

Blood was everywhere. How was she to know it had gotten this bad? Sure, every kid is afraid of the dark, but this—this is something different.

Sharp left onto Duponte St.

“It’ll be o-okay,” she shivered, rattling her thin fingers through Timmy’s hair, and against his oddly still shoulders.

“I’m okay, Mom. It’s better this way,” Timmy squeaked, blood running down his small, pink cheeks.

“Okay?!”

Timmy stared forward, smiling with the maniacal dark now a distant memory.

Her eyes trembled down to the two little white peelings on her lap.

“Can eyelids even be sewed back on?!”

M. Saffron

M. Saffron, born and raised in central Massachusetts, is an acting Army officer who has spent years in the corporate and cyber world. He’s found himself entangled in wires and cubicles—a sort of trap set by an unknown force—but yearns deeply for the wild and creative angles of life. “Balance at its finest,“ he sighs. He treats the pen as a sort of archaeologist’s spade, continually excavating an ever-deeper layer of wonder and confusion.