Natasher Beecher

George’s gift was a dense, useless burden, like a suit of solid gold. He craved normality and kept few possessions, ashamed as he was for those years of predictable frivolity. Cars, cash, drugs. Women. He wasn’t really watching the TV, the only thing remaining from those he’d drawn into existence. He was instead fearful of the sounds in the next room. The fevered scrape of his daughter’s pencil echoed the uncontrolled trance he’d been under, aged eight. Kelly was smarter, lovelier and more curious than he ever was as a child. And this he knew meant trouble for the world.

Seed by Natasher Beecher. Image by Thomas Friedrich Schäfer.

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