Feather strokes of his nails up and down her inner forearms. Her eyes closed, the indulgence of his touch almost to the point of intoxication. Chills left in the wake of his touch, his slender fingers laced with hers as he pulled her into his arms to welcome her home.

A.J. Luna

Wendigo 3

Maria Hightower was ten going on eighteen that summer. The only girl in the family, and all the kids teased her and told her that she would be just like her mother one day. The town whore. Kids can be mean at that age, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. She wore makeup, smoked when she could find half of a cigarette lying around and even took a sip of her mother’s alcohol-infused coffee from time to time. She was going nowhere fast and would be pregnant by the age of sixteen.

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The brush dripping with paint, the artist puts her soul into her work. Stark white, she held the tip of her finger over the bucket, piercing the skin with a needle. One drip, two, three, mesmerized as she watched strands of red taint the bucket. One person’s chaos is another person’s masterpiece.

A real artist puts her dark into the light.

A.J. Luna