The Hiding Place

by C.J. Tudor

But I do believe you can still feel the echoes of bad things. They imprint on the fabric of our reality, like a footprint in concrete. Whatever made the impression is long gone, but you can never erase the mark it left.

People say time is a great healer. They’re wrong. Time is simply a great eraser. It rolls on and on regardless, eroding our memories, chipping away at those great big boulders of misery until there’s nothing left but sharp little fragments, still painful but small enough to bear.

If the eyes are the windows to the soul, Gloria’s reveal nothing but empty rooms covered in blood-spattered sheets.

always knew Fletch would never leave. Some kids, you just do. It’s not that they don’t want to move somewhere else. It’s just that the thought that there is somewhere else has never even occurred to them.

That’s the problem with life. It never gives you a heads-up. Never offers you even the slightest clue that this might be an important moment.

Odd how we measure things. As if the ability to purchase a large building or the most fuel-guzzling mode of sitting in a traffic jam is the ultimate expression of achievement during our scant years upon this planet. Despite all our advancements, we still judge people in terms of bricks, cloth and horsepower.