12.18.09
Her husband was coming home today, and joy mingled with apprehension in her thoughts. His letter, written on the hospital ward, had not been out of arm’s reach since it had arrived – she must have read it over a hundred times by now, almost not daring to believe that it was true. The war was over for him: a leg cut off at the knee had seen to that.
Read the rest of this entry »
12.04.09
You must understand, I meant no harm. I was only trying to help. Really, when you think about it, our people are no worse off this way. We are effectively dead already, and have been ever since They came. Ever since They interfered with the Dreamers. Don’t look at me like that. You’d have done exactly the same thing if you’d had the opportunity. If you’d been the one to find the Dreamer They didn’t manage to kill. If your ears hadn’t already been shriveled and your fur turned coarse from living under the shadow Their world has cast upon ours.
Read the rest of this entry »
11.25.09
I will never forget how she looked when I saw her, on that morning as I was jogging in the woods: the dappled light dancing on her face, dark hair caressing her shoulders in the gentle breeze, full lips slightly parted, eyes bulging and feet still twitching a little as she hung from the tree.
11.20.09
The combination of 4 inch stiletto heels, cobblestone pavement and an attempt to fish out a cigarette packet from an overflowing handbag proved too much for her inner ear; she toppled over and felt the sharp pain of a twisted ankle. When she looked up and saw Death standing over her with his hand outstretched, she nearly had a heart attack.
Read the rest of this entry »
11.13.09
Rothbert Spires, current Scholar of the Court, put on his ceremonial robes and strode to the workroom. After ten years of believing those cursed birds had become extinct, he now found himself having to perfom a Tallid reading; if the reading turned out to be a bad one, it was very likely he would be beheaded before the day was out. He wanted to make sure everything was set up properly. He would be presenting his findings in front of the most exalted of audiences for the first time. He had prepared for it as much as was possible, but some things were after all out of his control, and science alone could not be relied upon; he prayed for a little luck.
Read the rest of this entry »
11.05.09
I have been preparing for this day for a year, but it feels like a lifetime. Ever since the prize for first place was announced, I knew I would have to not only enter the race, but also win it; all year I have been training for it, to the exclusion of almost all other activity. I whisper a prayer to the Great Lady of the Eastern Plains and look into my beast’s eyes.
“We can do it, Squibs.” She flaps her ears and smiles at me as only an elephant can, and I feel bolstered. We make a strong team – the bookmakers have declared our odds to be astronomical, but I believe we can prove them wrong. Squibs knows what is at stake: the prize is a dance with the Princess Alita, the brightest jewel in the kingdom’s crown. I am only a cobbler’s son, but tonight I have the chance of holding in my arms the most beautiful girl in the land.
Read the rest of this entry »
10.29.09
The soul-searching is over. I have been through all the stages: anger, then denial; from there to doubt; eventually to acceptance, and finally beyond that to conviction. I now know what I must do, and that I must act fast. I set off, stopping only to collect the one weapon I will need on my quest. I pass the fires still burning from last night, the broken glass from shop windows, the assortment of charred items strewn across the pavement. This is not a night to be crossing the city, but cross it I must. I am frightened, but I am also bolstered by determination and the hope of redemption.
10.23.09
The Laurentian warrior lords sit around the banquet table, enjoying what has for the past few weeks been a nightly event. The atmosphere is as usual one of unbridled raucousness, and of an uncouthness that only noblemen can manage. The Campagnard Elder is shackled to the wall behind the lord Daubert, the cuts and bruises on the old man’s face a map of his tormentors’ character. He ignores their jeers and keeps his gaze set on a point in the distance; his back is straight, his chin high, his face impassive.
