They say death wears feathers here. In Marrow Creek, we don’t wait for spring to come. We wait for the crows.

“Hurry up, Elsie,” Ma calls from the front door, already tugging on her shawl. “We need to be out there before they start to gather.”

I quickly shove my feet into my boots, not bothering to lace them up, and follow her out. The brisk morning air bites at my skin as I step outside and ca...

If you could be friends with yourself,

what would your answer be?

Do you even know who you are,

or are you also lying to me?

True self is now fiction

Originality’s been cast aside

A thousand faces with one routine

Truth replaced with filters and pride

They chase applause and acceptance

with their hollowed black eyes

Every perfectly curated life

Built out of easy white lies

But the mask is sli...