Macy Wynne, Fantasy

A lighthouse smile to passing strangers seeking home again. My dad passed his intellect to me, but along with excessive WWII knowledge and Jeopardy facts came An addiction to escapism and enough substance to fill the lobe where the english language once lived. The slow suicide takes over eventually, the organs fail in hospice care and the demons that haunt my last name never quite return to their fiery corners. I didn’t get the happy-go-lucky sunshine. I got the soul-searching under the moonlight, and the deep abyss of mental illness that permeates my foundation.

And there’s nothing I can do but keep my head above the water.