Author name: Karyl F. Stein

I:  Death She stood above me at the top of a long, plush staircase—each stair padded with a thin layer of foam and encased in a red velvet shell—holding the spiritual implement of my death in her sticky, blood-stained hands. Her yellow shirt was paired with white shorts, white knee socks, white shoes, and a

I cried that evening when we parted; she slipping silently into the comforting cloak of darkness while I drove away into the night bound for my empty shell of a home filled with no one and no thing except meaningless material possessions.  I could still feel her presence beside me even after she left.  She

Voices were ringing in my head—Fragments of conversations; photographs of peoples’ lives.Small tidbits of information invaded my essencethen became lost in this massive melting pot of humanity.It has gotten to the point where my own identity is foreign to me.Do I have an identity, or am I just a receptacle—a shellwithin which people throw bits