short-story
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In the quiet streets of Ivoryville, the shadows were empty. No brown arm linked with mine; just an empty grocery bag Eleanor sent me off with. Nothing but her gentle mouth giving me leave, giving me that lone sunset to witness as she’d had the past months of freedom I gave would give give give…
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“Oh, no. You’re not leaving, Marie. I’ve got one over there waiting for you,” he told her, pointing to the back deck. There stood another red, porcelain garden pot that matched the other five inside the garden.
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The cold night air felt good on my tear-stained cheeks. I walked alone back to my car parked on the side of the street when I heard a scream up ahead of me. My breath caught in my chest and I peered through the darkness in search of the scream. It was definitely a female’s…
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“To be admitted to The Academy, so you may train to perhaps become a Majik, of course,” the man explained, looking across at the four teens. “You may start by stating your qualifications for acceptance.”
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Forgiveness, she learned, wasn’t forgetting—it was surviving without poisoning yourself.
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Jak didn’t care much for politics, nor the lives of kings and queens, and yet here he was fighting their war. Deprived of his liberty, forced to fight, forced to kill, forced to die. But through his anger and despair, one vision kept shining through: Martha–smiling and happy and waiting for him to come home.
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What better way to spend Christmas than having your car break down in the NC mountains? Well, let’s ask Jared Miller. . .
