Half-Lives
A story written because some stories need to be told
It’s kind of quiet and peaceful, but not a good quiet. Not like a tranquil, Japanese garden kind of quiet. This is the eye of the hurricane, the calm before the storm; like the calm before everything you know disintegrates into ash and vanishes before your eyes. I enter my house warily, footsteps as quiet as I can make them, my hand inside my jacket clutching my penknife. Just in case. The door bangs shut behind me, and I...