1 Folds
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3
Pica, they called it. The incessant urge to pick and eat the paint. It wasn't that it tasted good--quite bland, actually. But it had a texture that trumped any fear of lead poison -
2
without fail. Compass in hand, he headed East toward the hills. Or was it East? The compass rose appeared to be damaged by the crash--as was much of his memory of the night past.
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4
It wasn't my imagination-the fungus was real. I had seen it before in my Nana's attic and in the old barn on Whitmore. I recognized its color variations, blue and red twisted veins