Coffee

Maybe if he’d known just how she liked her coffee, she’d still be alive.

Changes

Maybe in another life, she would have been able to live how she wanted. Maybe in the years past she would have lived in this presented servitude of the higher beings without question. Unfortunately, she despised servitude, and the gods would likely grant her reincarnation as a dung beetle if she were to try to end her suffering. Then again, beetles never looked out on the wide world and longed to experience it. They seemed pretty content where they were.

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At the Door

The third story printed with Fire in the Sky

 

Kris sat sideways in her favorite chair, reading a book and waiting for her visitor. The antique clock on the mantle showed 11:57pm. Kris turned the page and listened to the sound of the fire in the hearth, along with the quiet tick tock of the clock. A deck of tarot cards lay on the coffee table in front of her. She closed her book to glance at them. Just that morning they had confirmed the arrival of her guest, though they were not her first hint of his visit. That had come to her last night.

Hope

Another story printed with Fire in the Sky’s first publication.

 

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Wind rustled the trees, whipping around the buildings surrounded by the high fence. The storm was nightmare-turned reality to some of the tenants of this place. They tossed and screamed and begged the voices to save them. One prisoner was completely unfazed by the sounds, for they did not reach her. Lying on the floor, she counted the numbers the faces, the names, that only she could see. They called out to her. Always calling.

Careful footsteps down the white hall.

Always whispering.

Counting the numbers by the doors.

Always promising.

Check to make sure she’s there.

Freedom.

“Women”

This story was featured along with the very first publication of Fire in the Sky. For those few people out there that have a copy of that edition….I’m sorry. Mainly for the typos and flaws that filled the pages. Anyway, have yourself a read:

 

She never had a chance. She realized this as she sat in the bus station, holding a black rose and waiting for something, anything, to take her away from where she was. The blue-brown-green ocean made its constant trot toward the sand and rocks across the road. Fish leapt out of the moving glass to taunt the sea birds overhead. Silently the rose sat with its black petals reaching up to her, spinning back and forth in her delicate fingers.