Or so I am calling it, as it is the first day I am able to put more than two coherent words together. My previous lack of rational thought being not due to any exotic cause, but rather a far more pedestrian one: mal de mer. Now that my feet are once again firmly planted on terra firma I can view the world as a fixed environment rather than a pitching, rolling . . . enough! Having finally stabilized, my stomach does not need to have its hard won balance upset.
Kurt stood with his bride on the balcony of their bedroom, staring at the stellar display above. They were waiting for moonrise to celebrate their wedding night, a romantic moonlit consummation having been their dream from the first day they met.
The High Priestess
As she watched from her window, Pamela stood mesmerized by the torch-bearing procession as it snaked its way up the jungle pathway. They were coming for her, the end of her dream as cloaked in mystery as the beginning. That beginning seemed so distant, more like a lifetime ago rather than a year and a week. As she waited for her escorts, she thought back to that time.
As he dodged tumbling tumblers, juggling jugglers and fiddling fiddlers, Mircov twisted his way through the bustling Bazaar. Passing by cobbling cobblers, he at last found himself before the wine stall of his lifelong friend, Petre.
Deep within the Oort Cloud we find an entity named Praetz. who was gorging on photons and glowing with gluttony. This genderless, amorphous, black-body creature was of a race of sentient beings called Shimmerers, so named because their sole sustenance of photons produced a scintillating glow.
“Martin! Wake up!”
“I’m up, Dad. I’m up.”
It took a moment for Martin’s sleep-fogged mind to remember his father had been dead for nineteen years.
“The Emperor is dead! Long live the Emperor!” Night after night that fatalistic chant haunted his dreams and warned Emperor Windram he was not immortal. Realizing he would sleep no further that night, he arose amid the groans and creaks his aging body elicited. He drank from a goblet of amber wine, which he kept handy to warm his chilled bones, and hoped it would also quiet the harbingers of life’s transience.
Once upon a time, in an empire far away, two individuals were discussing their current situation:
“Good news, my lord,” said the palace lackey. “We have acquired what is needed for the Empress.”
“Thank goodness,” responded the palace official. “When will we be able to perform the ceremony?”
“All should be ready by noon tomorrow.”
“Good. Good. Tell the cooks to begin preparing the feast. The Empress must be feted with full regalia.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Paul has promised to deliver this to you as I don’t trust the comm channels. Use the encryption key I gave you before I left.
Carrying the cheese danish he had just bought from the food truck in the parking lot, Timothy stopped a moment to look at the building where he was employed. The word — mausoleum — popped into his mind. As a shudder quivered up his spine, he hesitated. This was one of those times when he felt as though walking through the front doors was akin to being swallowed by a modern-day crypt, an architectural predator that devoured all who dared to violate its sanctum.
The Hanged (Wo)man
“A hanging! A hanging! There’s going to be a hanging!”
Miranda, the old crone, shook her head as the town cobbler heralded the news. The cobbler’s cousin, a pot scrubber in the castle’s kitchen, was privy to all the latest court news. There had not been a public hanging in over a decade and he was excited.