L. J.

“Where did their original owner go? Didn’t they show their love by allowing their person to write upon them? Weren’t they of help? Why did the person leave after carving scars into their body as a permanent reminder of who owned them? Why did my owner have to replace what they once had...? I am very sorry, Desk, for not thinking about your feelings sooner. I certainly hope my owner chooses to keep you; you deserve better than to be abandoned…”
― L. J., Meraki: A Writing Collection

“Like a creature within the perpetual shadows, demonic eyes stare. Darkness oozes behind the beast, adding eeriness to the already sinister atmosphere. Sounds of discomfort enter the air as its leering continues. The silhouette of a head bobs erratically, as if too heavy for its long, thin neck, blending into the background. Unnaturally long fingers, bony in shape, each appearing like a tendril of a parasitic plant, reach forward, brushing against the porcelain creature’s unchanging face of wrinkles; how disconcerting.
“Harold!”
The call of an elderly woman rings throughout the upstairs hallway of the modern household. The man in question jumps, startled by his wife of fifty-four years. He removes his fingers from the abnormal portrait he’d been admiring. He gazes towards the open doorway of the bedroom.
His wife stomps inside, fury in her eyes, exasperation in her expression. She pauses before him, hunching over with palms on her brittle hip bones. Her head constantly shakes involuntarily. “You told me you would get rid of that thing.”
― L. J., Meraki: A Writing Collection