The Trees Grew Because I Bled There

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A beautifully crafted, devastating short fiction collection from the Bram-Stoker finalist and author of Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke and Other Misfortunes. Includes an introduction from acclaimed bestselling author Chuck Wendig.
Eight stories of dark fiction from a master storyteller. Exploring the shadow side of love, these are tales of grief, obsession, control. Intricate examinations of trauma and tragedy in raw, poetic prose. A woman imagines horrific scenarios whilst caring for her infant niece; on-line posts chronicle a cancer diagnosis; a couple in the park with their small child encounter a stranger with horrific consequences; a toxic relationship reaches a terrifying resolution…
A beautifully crafted, devastating short fiction collection from the Bram Stoker Awards® finalist and author of Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke and Other Misfortunes.

Horror Fiction

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157 páginas impresas

Propietario de los derechos de autor: Bookwire
Publicación original: 2023
Año de publicación: 2023
Editorial: Titan Books

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I suddenly regard them, not as if they were human beings, but rather as if their bodies were the undisturbed archaeological sites of ancient tombs—the secrets they must protect in their darkest recesses, the unrevealed confessions lying dormant inside them like the jeweled remains of long-since deceased Pharaohs
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irene. 🌤️compartió una citael año pasado
They laugh.

I don’t.

Instead, my eyes perform a makeshift surgery on my husband—from the broadness of his shoulders to the narrowness of his tapered waist. I split him open in my mind and watch his organs spill out like rotten pieces of fruit. Rummaging through the jewel box of carnage I’ve arranged in the center of his fileted chest, I search him for the moment it happened—the moment his love for me became an obligation. The horrible moment it no longer was a necessity and instead became a responsibility.

Whether it resides in the marrow of his bones as yellow as amber or whether it’s woven into the latticework of his motorway of arteries, the moment exists deep somewhere inside him. Sadly, it’s something my hands cannot locate no matter how assiduously my fingers comb through the shining sculpture puzzle of his internal anatomy.
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However, it’s a sadness hidden somewhere deep inside him I cannot help but recognize
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