So on this Wednesday morning, I offer the following little bit of fiction for your reading pleasure. It owes its life to an idea from The Fiancee (teehee – I love how pretentious that word sounds!) – someone who has wild and intense story ideas but occasionally needs someone to translate them for him… Enjoy!

Why is it always so cold on these mornings? Does it always have to happen in the damp dark hours just before dawn? I know some things can’t stand the full light of day, don’t belong in the world of crisp, clear colors. That part I can understand. But why must it always be so cold?

Every memory I have is grey; grey with a fine mist skulking about in the background, waiting to catch me alone and unguarded, waiting for a moment of weakness. Just like Mr. Withersby.
Continue reading Mr. Withersby (Fiction)