It’s an annual conference with an unusual boardroom. I smile, leaving my Oxfords against a pale stone as sunlight itches my nose instead of fluorescent rays.
Willows droop their branches, like martyrs at my grave. Though a child of royal blood, I am a prisoner of circumstance.
I treaded carefully in the snow. The target struggled, its limbs branching wildly before it abandoned any hope of freedom.
Sparks settle far along the fields below me. The light lingers for a moment, dims, then sizzles out as small puffs of smoke rise.
The entrance to the walking trail is framed by overgrown bushes.
It was barely a kiss, one quick and dainty on his cheek.
In the heart of a hidden clearing she waded, stowed away beyond the depths of man, save for one witness.
Tattered roof shingles look like the cobblestones my grandmother runs barefoot on when she is a granddaughter.
A black mass fills the hallway, its tattered cloak brushing against walls to leave a fresh, familiar stench in its wake.
Thin streams of fume loft from burning candles, the pungent smell of sugared cherries making sweet eyes water...