The house Catie remembers is a dainty, Victorian structure with powder-blue siding that sits at the edge of a wood white with birches. There, she and her little cousins had plunged through crispy, fallen leaves in autumn, and blankets of wildflowers on dreaming, summer days when they’d been young. Her memory bears little resemblance to the house now, its windows pitch-black and the birches crowding to either side, ghostly pale beneath the moon. The taxi’s vanishing headlight

Burrow Hello. I’m the man that lives in your house. Not your husband, or your brother. Not your son, not your nephew. The man in your house. I’m the one you hear, every so often, as a creak in the attic. A whisper-soft step, in another part of the house, when you’re sure you’re alone. I think you see me sometimes in the corner of your eye. My heart pounds every time you catch a little glimpse. The way you freeze, waver. Look around. The way your soul goes still with the mem

The magic wakes him, gentle as the fall of golden leaves from the white-limbed trees that whisper softly above, in the glade of the ancient hero. Eyelids flicker, lift. A sky of pallid blue greets him, gilded with boughs. The glade is quiet, murmuring with the echoes of ages long-gone. He sighs, and pushes upright with a wince. Caked in rusted armor, the ancient hero screeches to a sitting position, exhales a plume of dust. Moths lift from beneath his pallid braids and scutte

Published on GrimandGilded.com Issue 7, July 2022 The planet emerges from the brilliance of the cosmos like a tombstone from the mist,...

Originally published in The Maine Review The child is below us, but we dare to whisper, knowing the rain drowns us out; it slaps the...

I, the mold, am a keen observer of human inconsistencies. When the Lieutenant Colonel begins to fib about the Xenomatter Incident in...