His death was painfully slow. So slow, in fact, that he could see every single speck of his killer’s features, as his eyes slowly started to become blurry. His brother’s eyes. The colour of dark, dark coal. His friend’s hair. The colour of a warm, dark brown layered with what he could have described as light browns here and there. His killer’s lips. A pale rose tinted colour. The fact that those lips had folded back into a grin while his killer laughed maniacally had made him cry. Cry for his mother, his father, for someone to help him. The sad part is, his life was over and he could do nothing about it. Christopher Park stared down at his…

My son died yesterday, on an autumn evening, when the wind blew hard and the leaves hid from the first cold. The ambulance arrived too late. Since then, silence scratches my mind. But the worst thing was the wait every night, when he returned. My son died yesterday, but that night he came back to me. At first, I only heard a weak murmur with my name on his lips. A kind voice from the darkness. “I’m fine,” he told me. I saw him at the end of my bed, standing in a corner, barely a shadow. I knew it was him, it couldn’t be a trick of my mind My son died, and he has visited me every day,…

“Look at it go, sweetie!” the loving father joyfully called out to his little girl, pointing upward toward the kite flying high above the secluded beach. “Here baby, you try.” The little girl stood there shy, timid and melancholy as she stared skyward at the pale, flapping kite. This particular kite always reminded the girl of her missing mother; each of them, the mother and the kite, seemed to share the exact same colorful tattoos.

In the shadowy, pine-filled countryside of Greece, there’s an old legend known to the older locals but half forgotten and unknown to the few young people living there. The legend centres around an eerie stone statue of a little girl named Magda, hidden deep in the local dark pine forest. Magda was the daughter of a wealthy merchant in the late 1800s, a girl with straw-colored hair and a bright, innocent smile. She loved to play with her friends in the forest, especially a peculiar game of their own invention that was a blend of hide-and-seek and statues. The rules were simple: the children would blindfold themselves, and one person would stand by a tree in the distance, reciting a…

In the shadowy, pine-filled countryside of Greece, there’s an old legend known to the older locals but half forgotten and unknown to the few young people living there. The legend centres around an eerie stone statue of a little girl named Magda, hidden deep in the local dark pine forest. Magda was the daughter of a wealthy merchant in the late 1800s, a girl with straw-colored hair and a bright, innocent smile. She loved to play with her friends in the forest, especially a peculiar game of their own invention that was a blend of hide-and-seek and statues. The rules were simple: the children would blindfold themselves, and one person would stand by a tree in the distance, reciting a…

My son died yesterday, on an autumn evening, when the wind blew hard and the leaves hid from the first cold. The ambulance arrived too late. Since then, silence scratches my mind. But the worst thing was the wait every night, when he returned. My son died yesterday, but that night he came back to me. At first, I only heard a weak murmur with my name on his lips. A kind voice from the darkness. “I’m fine,” he told me. I saw him at the end of my bed, standing in a corner, barely a shadow. I knew it was him, it couldn’t be a trick of my mind My son died, and he has visited me every day,…

“Look at it go, sweetie!” the loving father joyfully called out to his little girl, pointing upward toward the kite flying high above the secluded beach. “Here baby, you try.” The little girl stood there shy, timid and melancholy as she stared skyward at the pale, flapping kite. This particular kite always reminded the girl of her missing mother; each of them, the mother and the kite, seemed to share the exact same colorful tattoos.

His death was painfully slow. So slow, in fact, that he could see every single speck of his killer’s features, as his eyes slowly started to become blurry. His brother’s eyes. The colour of dark, dark coal. His friend’s hair. The colour of a warm, dark brown layered with what he could have described as light browns here and there. His killer’s lips. A pale rose tinted colour. The fact that those lips had folded back into a grin while his killer laughed maniacally had made him cry. Cry for his mother, his father, for someone to help him. The sad part is, his life was over and he could do nothing about it. Christopher Park stared down at his…

In the shadowy, pine-filled countryside of Greece, there’s an old legend known to the older locals but half forgotten and unknown to the few young people living there. The legend centres around an eerie stone statue of a little girl named Magda, hidden deep in the local dark pine forest. Magda was the daughter of a wealthy merchant in the late 1800s, a girl with straw-colored hair and a bright, innocent smile. She loved to play with her friends in the forest, especially a peculiar game of their own invention that was a blend of hide-and-seek and statues. The rules were simple: the children would blindfold themselves, and one person would stand by a tree in the distance, reciting a…

My son died yesterday, on an autumn evening, when the wind blew hard and the leaves hid from the first cold. The ambulance arrived too late. Since then, silence scratches my mind. But the worst thing was the wait every night, when he returned. My son died yesterday, but that night he came back to me. At first, I only heard a weak murmur with my name on his lips. A kind voice from the darkness. “I’m fine,” he told me. I saw him at the end of my bed, standing in a corner, barely a shadow. I knew it was him, it couldn’t be a trick of my mind My son died, and he has visited me every day,…

“Look at it go, sweetie!” the loving father joyfully called out to his little girl, pointing upward toward the kite flying high above the secluded beach. “Here baby, you try.” The little girl stood there shy, timid and melancholy as she stared skyward at the pale, flapping kite. This particular kite always reminded the girl of her missing mother; each of them, the mother and the kite, seemed to share the exact same colorful tattoos.

His death was painfully slow. So slow, in fact, that he could see every single speck of his killer’s features, as his eyes slowly started to become blurry. His brother’s eyes. The colour of dark, dark coal. His friend’s hair. The colour of a warm, dark brown layered with what he could have described as light browns here and there. His killer’s lips. A pale rose tinted colour. The fact that those lips had folded back into a grin while his killer laughed maniacally had made him cry. Cry for his mother, his father, for someone to help him. The sad part is, his life was over and he could do nothing about it. Christopher Park stared down at his…