STRINGS
Faded Soulfire

P R O L O G U E

The puppet held the play,
Behind wooden eyes,
Painted with cheap, non-toxic
Watercolors with black,
Plastic buttons for eyes.
Then it raised the blades,
Shredding the strings apart.
And the puppet fell.

Jonah Everett was lucky. He held burdens like they were lighter than air. It kept him in step—the only routine he had to cling to. But Jonah Everett, and the bastard that he was, forgot about his dead weight being contagious.

It was his millstone that reinforced my fall.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is my latest plunge into the unknown. I’m steering blindly through this one, so we’ll see where it leads to. All chapters will fall on the short side, and this will deal with a mental disorder. That's all I can give out right now.