Truth is rarely constant in our world. It changes, adapts. Shifts. Beings shift too. But not like in the faerie stories or your latest fantasy novel. Some don’t change shape so much as focus on something new: a cause, a target, a vengeance. It can be planned in advance like on battlefield in Cork or just
When the Dark and Light fight, folklore stops being quaint. It becomes schooling. Check out the books on my shelf. You’ll see how it works. One mentions the Hand of Glory. It’s old magick. European. You severed the hand of a hanged murderer while he still swung from the rope, then preserved it. The fingers
People would assume keeping old work boots is about sentimentality. A father. A trade. A man you wanted to be. Billy’s don’t work like that. They’re photographed and displayed at eye level. Pristine. More like a warning sign than a keepsake. He passes them daily. A nod on a good day, a scowl on a
Information sheds weight as it travels. Names drop off first. Then dates. Then certainty. What’s left are phrases that don’t quite belong to anyone anymore. Copied, translated, misfiled, and passed along just because. Conn O’Cuinn got his hands on Carver’s file about Tazia. At that point, she’s just a girl nosing around his patch wanting
Tazia Savoy: The Girl With No Human Record Read More »
It’s spring. If you’re in the northern hemisphere, take a look out the window. I won’t describe it—you know what spring looks like as well as I do. The season makes people sloppy. Going without coats when they catch the sunshine peering around the clouds, only to sprint home freezing. Setting out the cream for
