-
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.
-
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…
-
Drinking the Heron
You reveled in battle, in the beating of drums and grinding of steel. And I, craven, lay awake in the anticipatory darkness, watching your chest rise and fall, wondering if each night would be our last. So certain was I that you would die sword in hand that I was blind to the stalking shadow,…
-
If You Can’t Make Your Own Regret, Store-Bought Is Fine
Regret was without question the emotion no membalmer wanted to see trickling into the basin when they tapped a skull. It was the sickly brown of leaves decomposing into stagnant water, and fragility aside, it smelled foul. The ideal outcome for any preservation, of course, was to provide a living memento of the deceased for…
RJ Aurand 