Blizzards and Bastards

by C.M. Stunich

I look back up at his face, and notice him noticing me. Crap. His smile shifts a little, a secret acknowledgment. Crispin seems like the sort of man you want Santa to leave under the tree, but probably fucks like he was abandoned by Krampus.

“If you don’t start writing something then you’ll never write anything,”

I’ve learned that you shouldn’t treat people better than they treat you and let resentment fester. You should drop to their level and only respond if they put forth effort first.