The Wistful Petal
The red stamp hit the mahogany with a wet, finality that shook the dust from the ceiling tiles, a visceral slap that echoed in the hollow chambers of my skull as Director Vane’s voice, a low grinding rasp that vibrated in my molars, accused me of sedition while I sat frozen, my hands trembling on the edge of the desk, the rejection order for my tenure correction regarding the 1998 Purge lying...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews