It’s not what she aimed to be. She always dreamed of writing poetry. She has notebooks scribbled full of pretty little fragments on blossom and summertime, songbirds and butterflies, and the visions of warmth and light that kept her alive during long dark years, promising her she could one day break free.
Shelley is safe now, life is gentler, and she feels ready at last to follow her dreams and to write. She opens her notebooks, picks up her pen, channels soul and memory through its thin black trail of ink.
Shelley writes horror stories.