Author: Elizabeth

Elizabeth Rossi (11) | STAFF REPORTER

Deadbolts, check. Door chains, check. Peephole covered, check.

The buzz of a rerun Tuesday night sitcom filled the dank living room with a cyclical laugh track. In the dingy kitchen, painted by the acidic yellowed bulb of the ceiling light was a kettle upon the stove. The gaseous flames, indigo and abstract, licked wildly as they sparked beneath the griddle but hardly bathed the iron in heat, seemingly taking their time with the matter. Pinned against the decoloured wallpaper, its peels having curled forward from age, stood the grandfather clock, rigid and familiar. It’d been a week since the last incident when their security cameras had stopped working. Then the time before that, their garage doors had opened while they were away at work.  read more

Elizabeth Rossi (11) | STAFF REPORTER

I don’t know my name or face anymore. I can’t remember how or when it happened. I don’t even know if it did. I can’t remember the beginning or the end. read more

Elizabeth Rossi (11) | STAFF REPORTER

The hallucinations were the same as always. The same three-eyed felines and one too many winged birds slinking between the branches outside her window, singing away. Pollen and dust clouded the creases of her walls and furniture in a hydrodip smog. Her hands wove around the stem of one of the cocooned buds, too young to flower. The plant couldn’t help its innate hunger to spread, seemingly starved and equally as determined to leave no surface within the basement untouched.   read more

It doesn’t bother me, the notion of being another little person with another little name.

No documents or history, or star-stricken revelations to praise for times indefinite. Instead, only a half scratched out name on a few sticky notes and receipts. read more