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By Edward Hodge in Issue #460 of Beneath Ceaseless Skies Online Magazine I retreated home, deciding I wouldn’t scold him for such peculiar and private habits, lest he hate me. In the same way that I could never entirely restrict your worship of Ukh between your chores on the farm, I felt I could not command him to avoid the tombs. Read more »
—for Rory Cooney It’s July 23, 4:17 p.m., and I’m box-breathing like my life depends on it. My forehead is pressed against the door of the meeting room of the […]
On a wooded hillside outside Pittsburgh, where the rivers braid together and the bridges flash yellow in the sun, there stands an old private school no one ever remembers enrolling in. Ivy grips its cracked bricks. Moss blurs the leaded windows. To almost anyone looking, it appears abandoned. Unless they are the newly dead. If that is the case, ...