“So, you’ve had some stories published?” I hate the old, quavering sound of my voice.
“Yes, grandpa.” I still think of him as the boy, though he’s older
than me when I’d married Martha. He’s holding his book behind his
back. “I’ve got a chapbook of short stories.”
“Oh,” I say, and nod. “Good job. Can I read them?”
“They’re… not really your speed.” I see the knife and blood on the
cover. “Thanks, though. Gotta go, grandpa.”
I shake my head as he leaves, and try to decide between the Poppy Z.
Brite novel or the Clive Barker one.