Calling All Murderinos…

In eighth grade, my mother told my father I was obsessed with death. Perched in my spying spot just outside the kitchen, I was stung. But I shrugged. Smug with overinflated beliefs in my own brainpower, I knew where her concern lay. It was with the sonnet, Death Be Not Proud, the famous ditty by … Continue reading Calling All Murderinos…