Latest Short Story:
When blood sun sets,
And full moon rises,
Look east to the weeping maiden.
When nightingale sings,
And nighthawk cries,
Look west as the lost sun rises.
Two figures disturbed the evening stillness of the valley. They moved through the brittle grass and bare trees, grabbing for handholds to climb the slope, and a sweet voice drifted on the wind.
“Stop the infernal humming,” the boy said, yanking his shirt away from a thorn bush.
Ahead of him, the girl reached the top of the slope. Beyond lay rolling hills, muted gray in the dimming light.
“Look,” she said, pointing. “The weeping maiden.”