By Sharyl Heber
Niagara. Trite, but it means something to him. Tourists that surround us on the platform keep their distance.
“How long I’ve waited to stand here with you,” he says. The roar of the Falls overpowers his voice. I can feel the unnatural heat of his breath on my neck. He reaches for my hand to find his lavish diamond on my finger. Turning it, he croons an eerie bar of ‘Twilight Time’ and presses himself closer. Continue reading Nightwriters: The Ordinance