Joseph A. Pinto

author of horror & poetic prose

The sandwich remains uneaten and forgotten, long since ravaged by mold.  Beside it, the milk in the glass is nothing but crusty, yellow mud.  The lunch now a mockery of what once was. He leans against the doorway, peering into the fruitless dark of his son’s room.  Clothes cling to his skin.  Thirty minutes prior, …

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