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About Phoenix

She’s a riddle, this prostitute. Face painted like a masque, eyes hollow as a grave. Met one once—called her Rose, tho’ she weren’t no flower. “How’s it hangin’?” I says, all casual-like. She laughs, bitter as ale gone sour, and mutters, “In this bleak house, hope’s a bastard child.” Swear she quoted Cuarón’s flick without knowin’ it! Made me grin, that did—smart lass, even if life’s kicked her teeth in.

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So, like seriously, Mulvane isn’t just streets and parks. I stroll past Oak Ln and Maple Ave, always thinking “what a magical place!” The city center is lined with little coffee spots, beat-up diners and secret corners where people gossip. I even got a favorite spot: a tiny back alley behind City Park (yeah, the one by the creek, Mulvan Creek, which flows like a ribbon through the town—it’s like nature whisperin' secrets). Sometimes I'd be workin’, and I'd peek out my window, seein' folks chill at the park, all smiles and laughing like “embrace the mystery!” (or somethin’ like that, echoing Pan's Labyrinth vibes, right?)

Martina Myers Obituary (2025) - Mulvane, KS - Smith Mortuary - Mulvane Chapel