My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann

— Stories from the Roads (Not) Taken

When you’re a kid, disaster is the sound of silence. Of adults’ metallic whispers like needles in your ears.  It tastes like soda, sweet and carbonated, tickling your nose and throat as you swallow, then sloshing in your overfull stomach.  It is also the words of a forbidden book. ***** It begins as a gift–an …

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