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In the Blue Hour
She always returns in the blue hour, when twilight stains the glassy surface of the tarn with sky. Torn, stained, still smelling of charred flesh or powdered with quicklime, waxen lips curling into a wan smile. Most detested cousin. Most wanted inheritance.
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The Deading Veil
Women did not always survive the ceremony, or at least not in a way that mattered. Three generations prior, a great-aunt had lain beneath the shroud and never emerged. When someone was at last sent to fetch her they found her catatonic, gossamer fabric clutched tightly in her hands. She died three days later without…
RJ Aurand 