Issue One: Begin

ISSUE ONE

SUMMER 2022

BEGIN

HAUNTED WORDS PRESS

FEATURING YASSIE HODGES ANGELA PATERA FIONA H EVANS ELISE PEYRAT REBECCA KEALY HALLE MERRICK

CONTENTS Introduction

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Flowers for the Forgotten

CHILDREN | SPOOKY | GHOST

Yassie Hodges

Shortcut

YA | THRILLER | FEAR

Rebecca Kealy

Darkside Fiona H Evans

Sighting of the Ghosts in the Forest

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YA | HORROR | POSSESSION

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YA | MYSTERY | PARANORMALCY

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YA | HORROR | SLEEP

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YA | GOTHIC | AMERICANA

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Angela Patera

The Nameless Man Halle Merrick

The Darkness Hums Elise Peyrat

Author and Artist Bios

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INTRODUCTION Haunted Words Press was created by a very tired university student towards the end of her Creative Writing degree. This was partially because she was procrastinating her dissertation, but mostly because she hadn’t seen a whole lot of zines out there aimed at the middle grade and young adult audience who preferred the strange and peculiar side of things. Once upon a time she’d been a weird, spooky kid that drew pentagrams in the corners of her exercise books and in chalk on the playground, and figured that there were probably still kids and teenagers today doing the same thing and wanting to know they weren't alone in it. And thus, Haunted Words Press was born.

This issue, our very first inaugural issue, encompassses flash fiction, short stories, and visual art created for young adults under the theme ‘Begin’, which seemed a fitting theme for the beginning of what we hope to be a long-standing publication. The work in these pages has been submitted by incredibly talented and peculiar people who saw our tiny little lit mag raise its hand in the online world and decided to wave back. For that we’re incredibly thankful, because if they hadn’t submitted then we wouldn’t really have anything to show you, and Haunted Words Press would’ve stayed as a little dream at the back of our minds.

We really hope you enjoy what you see and read, and that you love this very first issue of Haunted Words Press as much as we do.

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- Halle Merrick, Editor in Chief

FLOWERS FOR THE FORGOTTEN YASSIE HODGES CHILDREN | SPOOKY | GHOST

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SHORTCUT REBECCA KEALY YA | THRILLER | FEAR The hole between the houses on the street pulses. Dark energy.

Everyone says it. Stories travel the estate like a virus, warn even the hardest of people off. The flicker of an unseen bird. Whistle of wind with no breeze. But it’s icy, hairs standing on end. Lingering like bad breath. Stale. Shrubs bustle and nothing leaves. Warning signs. She doesn’t want to go through.

Damp drizzle and a misty morning sky, charcoal clouds getting thicker. It’s muggy, close and suffocating.

No-one else is around.

Deep gulp. The kind that leaves the feeling of something lodged in your throat for hours after. She tugs at her school tie, though nothing will rid it. Mouth dry, cracked at the sides. It does that when she runs.

She’s out of running.

Out of choices.

She checks her phone. A layer of droplets coat the screen. Five minutes and it will be too late. They’ll never let her in to the exam – the last kid banged on the glass like his life depended on it. Still, they didn’t care. Last time he was seen alive. Still, they didn’t care.

Rules are rules.

Time’s ticking. Rumbles from above. The concrete around her wet, everything two shades darker. Going round is out the question. She’ll

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never make it. She’ll be the missing kid at the glass.

One last throaty groan. Burning, bile at the bottom.

She doesn’t want to go through.

Squeezing her eyes, balling fists. Heart pounding from her fingertips, trickling to her ear. Breeze wraps her body and pulls her in. Slowly… harder now.

Do it. Go. She bolts. Lightning to the storm brewing above. From concrete to rubble, leaves fallen in the wrong season, branches reaching out.

Luring her into their decaying grip. Stay in the middle. No path. Mud, squelching. Spits on her shins. She leaves all light behind. Keep going.

Shaking in the shadows of the trees above that clasp the sky. Shaking in the bushes. There’s something in there.

No. Don’t think. Imagination runs wild. Keep going. Get out.

She rubs the goosebumps prickling her neck and winces. Deeper in the tunnel, almost pitch black. The kind your eyes never adjust to. Pick up the speed. Don’t blink. She won’t. Just in case. Was it always this long?

She’s running. Tunnel inverts. Wet leaves flick against her cheeks.

Arms outstretched, push them out the way. Twigs, dead and growing flowers, stinging nettles. Pricking exposed bits of skin, thicker the mor she moves. Fights. Keep going.

A scream. Heart flips. Shockwaves. Legs clutter. SLAP. Bare hands and red cheeks on the wet mud. Sharp. Rubble, stones stick into her cheeks. Vision pulses. Blurry then not. Blurry then black. Don’t look back.

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Just a fox. Just a fox?

Frozen in place. Numb legs don’t move. Won’t.

Don’t panic.

Another scream.

Too late.

Piercing. Blood curdling. Desperate. Distant. The earth vibrates around her, leaves flutter. The ones stuck to her skin ripple. Wet dog flings with them.

She sticks palms into the ground beneath her. They sink like quicksand into growing pools of mud. Gravel into creases of skin.

Engrave their name. Cuts. They’ll bleed later.

Drags her legs along. Water floods her eyes. Trickles into her mouth.

Down her chin. Tears or rain. Both. Washes the mud. Leaves the stains.

Push. Push. Heaves herself up. All her strength. Exhausted. Yanks her body. Left leg. Right leg. Twigged bones on the verge of snapping. Will they?

She hobbles. Feet scuffling. Knees cracking.

Light at the end. She’s close. Just keep moving forward and forward and forward…

Another scream. Hot breath on her neck. Spine chilling. Stomach hurtling forward. But it came from the light.

No fox.

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Run. Like a vacuum, the scream throws her back. Hair sucked, whipped behind her ears. Cheeks ripple. Eyes squinted. Hot breath on her face.

Breath stolen.

Push. She battles. Arms flailing. Chest tight.

The light shrinks. Smaller. Smaller. Exit closing. Escape dying.

Didn’t even make it to the glass.

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DARKSIDE FIONA H EVANS

YA | HORROR | POSSESSION The Darkside Mortuary lies on the boundary between the countryside and the woods. Sad visitors, and they are mostly all sad, approach the mortuary via a long avenue of elegant silver birch. No matter the time of day, sunlight slips through the leafy canopy to dance upon the gravel driveway. The city’s noise falls away, and a sense of peace descends. A widow who’d thought her senses numbed by loss might detect the fragrance of lavender and dawdle by the flower garden in the centre of the forecourt.

At the end of the avenue, the mortuary is a large, brick building with tall, narrow windows. It sits on the boundary between the countryside and the woods. Behind the mortuary, oak and hawthorn trees grow tall and dense, blocking the sun. The passage into Darkside might be bright and pleasing, but the rear of the building is always shaded.

Samael slipped from between the shadows and quietly emerged from the woods. He paused to adjust the cuffs of his silver, sateen suit and noted the paper-thin skin on his wrinkled hands. This body was getting weaker by the day as it faded into old age. It had served him well, but it was time to shed this human form and find a new host better suited to a demon of his stature.

Samael had been observing the mortuary for some time. Coming into the light was always risky. He’d watched the mortician and his wife drive off that morning. There was only the little girl left there now. It was time to make his move.

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Lily Darkside’s father was the last in a long line of morticians, and he refused to believe Lily would not uphold the family tradition.

“It’s not that I don’t care about the dead,” she told him repeatedly. “It’s just that I think there has to be more to life!”

Lily had lived in the Darkside Mortuary since her parents bought her home after her birth almost fourteen years ago. Their apartment took up the whole upstairs floor, with the business areas underneath it.

The mortuary was quiet today. Only three bodies rested in the refrigerators. They’d been embalmed, but the funerals weren’t booked until later in the week. Lily’s parents had taken the opportunity to drive into town for the day. Now Lily sat at her father’s desk in the showroom, doodling and dreaming of escape. Having lived her entire life in one place, she longed to see the world.

Glancing out the window, Lily started when she saw the strange man standing there. She pushed away from the desk and opened the door.

“We’re closed today,” she said.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “Samael March, from the health department.” He gave a slight bow. “I’m here to inspect the premises.”

Lily sighed.

“My parents aren’t here, but I can show you around.”

Inside, a vase of roses sat upon a small wooden table, scenting the air with their delicate aroma. Lily noted her appearance in the giltframed mirror that hung on the wall. She looked calm, bored even, although she was all nerves on the inside.

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Samael followed the girl through the foyer and into the parlour.

Passing by simple wooden chairs laid out in neat lines, she opened an unassuming door at the far side of the room. Fluorescent lights banished the darkness with the flick of a switch, but it was always cold in the embalming room.

Deep-drawered refrigerators covered one entire side of the room, which hummed with the sound of their motors. Embalming equipment sat neatly on open shelving on the opposite wall. White tiles covered the floors, and two long, stainless steel benches stood over drains in the middle of the room.

Lily gestured and said, “It’s all perfectly clean.”

“Ah, but I will have to scrutinise closely,” said Samael.

Marching to the fridges, he pulled open the nearest drawer marked as in use. The body of a man lay inside. John Sweetingham had been a man in the prime of his life when a lorry struck his motorcycle and killed him instantly. He was big and strong, with muscles hardened by labour and a belly distended by habitual beer drinking. Mr Darkside had straightened his broken bones, but nothing could disguise the broken capillaries on his bulbous nose.

“No, this won’t do at all,” said Samael. “It’s far too big and boorish.”

He opened the next drawer and found the body of a woman. Abigail Green was an elderly lady who’d died peacefully in her sleep after living a long and full life. Mr Darkside had dressed her in her finest gown and tinted her cheeks with a delicate pink rouge.

“No, no,” said Samael. “Too old and fragile!”

Samael whipped open the last drawer. Inside, a young man lay on his back with his arms folded over his chest. Dark hair framed an aquiline,

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handsome face. Todd Butler had died suddenly of a brain aneurysm, and Mr Darkside had done a perfect job with the embalming. Todd looked peaceful as if he were merely asleep and not dead.

“Ah, this body is just right,” breathed Samael.

“Young, strong and beautiful. Now all I need is a spark of life.”

Samael turned to find Lily backing slowly out of the embalming room.

-The astringent smell of ammonia tickled Lily’s nostrils. It smelt like home. She’d always felt most comfortable in the embalming room away from the mourners and those who only pretended to mourn. It was here, as she’d watched her father inject formaldehyde into the veins of the dead, that she’d formulated her plan.

Lily watched Samael as he inspected the corpses. Three, two, one. He turned with a smile, and without seeming to move, he was suddenly beside her. His fingers snaked around her wrist and grasped with a strength that belied his ageing body.

Samael began to dissolve into pure demonic substance, ready to take her life force and use it to reanimate the body. Black smoke whirled around the room, surging and growing in strength and power. She had to move quickly now.

Lily whipped her free hand out from behind her to reveal a large glass jar.

“I banish thee, I banish thee, I banish thee, demon. Tres ego deleo in hoc receptaculum!” she chanted.

Unable to resist the spell, Samael’s essence was sucked into the jar.

Lily screwed the lid on tightly.

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-In the mortuary that marks the start of the woods, the nightingale’s warbling song can be heard night and day all through summertime.

Lily Darkside whistled along with the bird as she passed the garage where the hearses are kept. A curved path leads to the chapel and crematorium, but Lily slipped through the forest’s edge to a small shack hidden in the trees. Various shades of light glowed from numerous glass jars in the darkness within. Each would earn a pretty penny on the black-magic market.

The door creaked as she pushed it open and leaned in to place another jar inside.

Lily grinned. “Ten more demons, and I’ll have enough to pay for university and begin my new life.”

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SIGHTING OF THE GHOSTS IN THE FOREST ANGELA PATERA YA | MYSTERY | PARANORMALCY

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THE NAMELESS MAN HALLE MERRICK YA | HORROR | SLEEP Did you know the average human can go almost 11 days without sleep?

By the end of it, you aren’t yourself anymore – the sleep deprivation kicks in well before the 11 days, usually around the 4 day mark.

Ellie was on her 6th day.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to sleep, because she did, she really did, but she didn’t want to face what was waiting for her there. Every night as she settled down to sleep she was greeted by the Nameless Man, taunting her further and further into insanity the longer she spent in her dreams with Him. Sleep paralysis demons had nothing on this… thing. Whatever He was, she wanted Him gone, and the only way she’d found so far was to stop sleeping. It wasn’t a great solution long term, and eventually insanity would catch up to her no matter what route she took. But at least this way, the insanity wasn’t put there by Him, and that brought her enough comfort to keep going.

On the 8th night, her research on how to get rid of whatever He was finally paid off. An article hidden away at the deep dark edges of the web, detailing demons and how to deal with them. To hold power over that which taunted her, she needed to say His name. That brought up its own issues, since the thing had never named Himself to her. His torture tactics never focused much on introductions, or conversation in general. So her research took her further along the path this article opened up, through an endless list of names that she had no way of confirming without facing Him again. She wouldn’t do that until she was prepared.

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The 9th and 10th nights came and went, as she committed to memory as many of the names that she could. It was getting harder and harder to do much of anything, and by the 11th night, whether she was ready to take her stand or not, her eyes closed.

He waited for her there, as he always did, ready with an extra 10 nights of built-up torment to unleash onto her. She started speaking names, all of which had no effect on him, and all the while he edged ever closer to her.

By the time she got to the last name, he was on top of her. She screamed it with her last breath.

It didn’t work.

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THE DARKNESS HUMS ELISE PEYRAT YA | GOTHIC | AMERICANA We have always lived in this house. Actually, I think I was born somewhere else, but they made sure I forgot about that. This house is all I remember. These walls. The forest in the backyard and the rows of identical houses in the front. Our house is the last one of a small congregation of buildings. I think this used to be a trailer park but the houses all sank into the ground. This is the sticks, the outskirts of civilisation. People don’t die here, they go missing. This is not a place where you want to stay, this is a place made for leaving.

This is a place where the sun sets for hours, the warm glow hanging low on the porches. Cicadas louder than your thoughts and dreams of somewhere else buzzing in the heat. The smell of smoke and soil. An old woman on a rocking chair, a dog, bones and rocks hanging in arcane wind chimes. Kids on bikes, with bloody knees and dirt on their faces. We came from the earth and when all is over, we will return to the earth.

Everyone stops for a second, watching as the ball of light disappears behind the tree line, as if swallowed by the forest. The kids hurry home, the old woman brings the dog inside. At night, strange things happen around here. The pine trees cast their darkness on the houses, eaters of light. I was always told to avoid the forest after the sun sets.

It was no longer a world of humans and sunlight, but a world of animals and magical beings.

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I hear it. When I can’t sleep and the moon casts shadowy silhouettes on my walls, I hear the forest calling for me. It wants me. It’s hungry.

It’s so hungry. The old woman says if we go out at night, the forest will take us. The old woman has seen a lot of things. She came from the earth when the earth was only dust and the forest. She taught me how to use a shotgun. She said I must be ready.

They say there is a beast in the forest. It’s sleeping. It’s been sleeping for centuries. Trees have grown on its back, moss covers its eyelids, animals have died and decayed in its bosom. When it rises, the whole forest will shake. I will know when it happens. I know the skyline of these trees. I know how many mountains there are.

Sometimes, I lie in bed, quiet, and I can feel my bones grow. It makes me want to howl like a wolf, but I’m afraid the forest will howl back.

I’ve been growing for so long that, some days, I think my bones will never stop. They’ll jut out of my wrists, outgrowing my slender body, and I’ll become a tree – white and majestic.

This house is the last bastion between the strange, dark world of the forest, this country of magnificent beasts; and the dusty, orange light of the country of men. Sometimes, it feels like the house is cut in two – one part in the sunlight, and one part in the darkness. Sometimes, it feels like the moss is an invasive creature that will take over the back porch and slither into the kitchen. In the future, when all the humans will have died, this house will be overtaken by the wild. The forest will keep growing, and eating, and it’ll swallow my childhood bedroom, and it’ll swallow my dreams of somewhere else, and it’ll swallow my bones.

When I was a kid, I saw an angel riding on the back of a garbage truck.

His wings were so wide they stuck out on each side of the truck. He looked so tall, so still, standing there in front of the dead meat, the plastic, the rotten fruits and the wreckage of life. I watched him

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disappear in the sunset light. I dropped my bike and ran home. I was so afraid he would come to take me away. The marquees here always say that He is coming. I do not want to meet Him if He made all the things on earth, if He made the forest. The old woman said if it were a real angel, he’d have more eyes, more wings.

Once I saw a bird with eyes everywhere.

Once I saw a fox with two heads.

Once I saw a dead stag. It was a skeleton, held together by magic. It looked at me, from the edge of the forest. There were mushrooms growing in its eye hole. I tried to look away, it felt wrong to behold something so magically decayed, but I couldn’t. It had its hold on me.

A gunshot made the birds fly away and I looked up to see them break from each other and disappear into the sky. When I looked back, the stag was gone.

Early in the morning, the fog seeps from the forest into town. It covers everything behind a smoke screen. With it comes the unshakeable feeling that something is there, just out of reach, in the mist. You can squint all you want but you won’t see anything. It, however, can see you.

The forest and its strange inhabitants walk into town under the cover of the fog. The old woman says it’s not safe to go out when you can’t see. That’s how her husband was taken. Dogs bark at invisible creatures hidden in the mist. I did not tell the old woman, but I saw her husband once. He comes back from the forest with the fog, to check on her. He hides in the white veil and looks at her. His face is caved in, moss covers the better part of his bare skull. A pine tree is growing out of his eye socket.

When the fog vanishes, I go to the barn. I work there with the other

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boys. They treat me like one of theirs. When the sun starts going down, they go into town, buy beers and loiter around the convenience store. I am a stranger to these intricate rituals, these demonstrations of boyhood. I stay at the barn, clean the floor, lock everything. It is all quiet except for the hum of electricity, and something else. Something scratching behind the doors. It could be a dog. It could be anything, really. I open the doors, looking in the growing darkness for the something. The something looks back.

It’s a girl.

It’s a girl with short brown hair and mushrooms growing on her head.

They form a crown, like a fairy ring. We stare at each other, breathless. Her eyes are peculiar, big, entirely black. The light of the barn should reflect in them but instead seems to be completely swallowed.

‘Help’, she gasps, and darts towards the forest.

She stops at the edge of the woods, waiting. Waiting for me, I realise.

She looks more human than anything else. I grab the shotgun off the wall and follow her. We step into the forest and it swallows us like a mouth. Not even a few yards from the outskirts, the light of the sun is completely blocked by the trees. The smell of damp soil and animals is strong. It feels strangely familiar. The girl holds a hand for me. She has a kid’s watch on her wrist – plastic, dirty, little cartoonish characters smiling. I take it. The old woman says if you’re going in the woods, follow the animal’s path. They’ll know where to walk.

I follow the girl to a clearing. In the center, there is a pond. It’s a strange place, the trees seem to have grown away from the body of water. They form a perfect circle around it, fireflies’ reflection in the water light the clearing eerily. The girl runs to the pond. There is something in it. Something drowning. I throw the shotgun and lean by the edge. I stick my hand in and someone grabs it. I pull. It pulls back.

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I teeter but lose my balance. It pulls me in. Water fills my lungs as I try to scream, to reach for the girl, to hold on to something. The pond is bottomless. I sink, I sink, I sink.

I follow the girl to a clearing. In the center, there is a fairy ring. The fireflies won’t fly in the heart of it. I look at the girl, hesitantly. She looks back earnestly. ‘Can I have your name?’ She asks. And, like a fool, I give it to her.

Her smile turns malevolent. I tighten my grip on the shotgun but she’s on me in less than a second. She pushes me and I stumble backwards.

I fall in the fairy ring. I reach for the shotgun, unsure whether to shoot the girl or myself. Roots of nearby trees surge from the ground, wrapping around the metal and tearing it away. The earth crumbles under me. The fairy ring eats me whole. I fall, I fall, I fall.

I follow the girl to a clearing. In the center, there is a boy. Just a boy. A teenager in a dark hoodie. He has his back to us. The fireflies land on his clothes and seem to disappear in the folds. He turns to look at us.

Where there should have been a face, there are fur, fangs and blood. A wolf-boy. He snarls his teeth and leaps towards me. The hoodie dissolves into a pack of wolves. They tear into me, biting, ripping, chewing and spitting. I can hear my bones splintering. I am not sure anymore if I am the boy, the wolf or the prey. I eat, I eat, I eat.

I follow the girl to a clearing. In the center, there is the angel. His wings are wide and dirty. He has finally come for me. He made the forest, and He made me, and now He is claiming my body.

I follow the girl to a clearing. In the center, there is a cave.

I follow the girl to a clearing. In the center, there is a skeleton with flowers growing out of its ribcage.

I follow the girl to a clearing. In the center, there is me, eating my own hands. I follow the girl. I follow the girl. I follow the girl. I follow the

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girl. She drags me through the woods, jumping over dead branches and rocks. She never seems out of breath. I do not remember if we are running towards something or away. Maybe something is chasing us. I am tired. My legs feel weak. I dropped the shotgun long ago. My skin is scratched and bloody. I need to sit down, I need to rest. I am so tired.

I let go of the girl’s hand. The girl doesn’t stop running. She disappears into the trees. I feel so alone but I know that I am not. You are never alone in the forest. My knees buckle under me and I fall to the ground.

I curl up and close my eyes. Maybe the moss will swallow me. I sleep, I sleep, I sleep.

I sleep for hundreds of years. And while I sleep, my bones grow. They grow big and strong. I am enormous. I do not fit in my skin house anymore. The trees watch me sleep. They cover me with their dead leaves. Blanketed away, I dream of monsters, angels, mushroom-girls and wolf-boys. Moss covers my eyelids. Trees grow on my back. Every time my skin tears, I grow eyes. Every time my bones break, I grow wings. One day, I will wake and be taller than the whole forest. Neither boy nor girl, I came from the earth. I am the monster sleeping in the forest.

When I am awake, the girl comes by. She sits on my shoulder. She asks for stories about the outside world. I tell her about the house, the old woman, the dog, the kids on bikes and the cicadas. Soon, she brings her friends. Little fairies, wingless birds, wolves with countless mouths, deers with antlers like thorn bushes. I tell them of the boyhood rituals, the dreams of somewhere else, the wind chimes.

They listen closely.

This is the wild country and we live here as a big family. When the fog seeps from the forest into town, we go visit the living. At night, we whisper to them to join us. When the boys who have not yet learned compassion shoot one of us for fun, that poor creature drags itself to

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me. I hold it to my bosom as it passes away. I return it to the moss, let it decay sheltered in my shadow.

We have always lived in this forest. We came from the earth, and when all is over, we will return to the earth.

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AUTHOR AND ARTIST BIOS YASSIE HODGES Yassie Hodges (she/her) is a 22-year-old local student studying at Falmouth University. She is working towards a BA(Hons) in Illustration and enjoys exploring illustration catered towards children, but also surrounding mental health; aiming to work on removing the stigmas in an illustrative way. You can find her @ya.ssie on Instagram.

REBECCA KEALY Rebecca Kealy (she/her) is a gentle ginger giant from Birmingham and a recent Creative Writing graduate at Falmouth University! She loves to write fiction, predominantly YA as she’s always enjoyed the simplicity of the writing style, where characters and story is far more important than intricate, beautiful sentences for sentences’ sake. Currently she’s working on her first novel, and slowly working out how to blog to get her writing out there!! You can find her blog at http://rebeccajkwriting.wordpress.com/, and on Instagram @rjkwriting

FIONA H EVANS Fiona H Evans (she/her) is a mathematician and emerging writer. She lives in Perth, Western Australia, on Noongar Boodja with a dog, a cat and two chickens too old to lay eggs. You can find her on Twitter @FionaHEvans

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ANGELA PATERA Angela Patera (she.her) is a hobby artist from Lefkada, a small island in Greece. She enjoys drawing anything that inspires her, but mainly does fan art of movie characters and musicians of bands. Recently, after many years, she found her interest in drawing nature and fantasy inspired art again. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @/angela_art13

HALLE MERRICK Halle Merrick (she/they) is an English writer of the magical, the peculiar, and the whatever-thought-popsinto-her-head. They are currently living in Falmouth, Cornwall and studying Creative Writing. She loves to write LGBT romances full of magic and the supernatural, and would very much like to live in a haunted house with a legion of ghost cats one day. You can find her on Twitter @halle_merrick and Instagram @hallemaem.

ELISE PEYRAT Elise Peyrat (they/them), also nicknamed Bird, is a twenty-one-year-old Creative Writing graduate from Falmouth University. They have a knack for the creepy, the spooky and the bizarre. They like to explore themes of gender, sexuality and neurodivergence in coming-of-age stories (which is why most of their main characters end up looking strangely like them). They also like movies and video games that use horror as a way to discuss serious topics. They write poetry, screenplays, video games scripts and short stories. You can reach Elise at lisiepraety@gmail.com or on Twitter @TEXASREZN1KOFF

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K Y N O A U H T

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