Dear authors,
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, decide whether your story is past tense or present tense, and stick to it.
Is it ever correct to switch between past and present? Sure, if your story is in present tense but includes flashbacks or memories of a previous time, the flashbacks will be in the past tense. Less common, but possible: Your story is in the past tense but includes a flash forward to the present day.
Here's an article on choosing tense from The Write Practice.
Here's another article on tense consistency from Grammarly.
Here's a video from PBS.
Summer Holiday, September 1961
by Richard Newell
From the back seat, I could see the traffic ahead being diverted. It was a hot and humid night and the streetlights were pale in the unseasonal mist that swirled thinly round them. The colonel, who was driving, muttered under his breath, cursing the delay, while his civilian passenger - my brother - picked absently at his thumbnail.
"Did they say how many?"
"According to my radio report, three so far. But the first one across said the whole family of six was on its way."
We inched forward. When we reached the roadblock, the colonel briefly switched on a small blue light, perched discreetly on the dashboard. The policeman saluted as he waved us through, and we made good progress for the next two hundred metres.
"We’d better stop here," said the colonel. The road had ended in an open space with some ruined buildings barely visible nearby. Across this space, stretched out in front of them, was a four metre high concrete block wall, topped partly with barbed wire. It looked unfinished and dropped down to three metres as it disappeared off to the right. The car edged forward until we could see a handful of armed British soldiers grouped around a military ambulance, parked well back. A dog barked in the distance. The whole scene was like an old black and white movie, without any other sounds of life or movement.
I leaned forward between the front seats. "What now?" I whispered.
"We wait and watch, then your brother and I go back to our offices and send in our reports. You, my boy, stay out of sight and do nothing, because officially you’re not here." I was spending my school holidays with my diplomat brother and we had all been dining out at a lakeside restaurant when the call came through, and the older men did not feel they could leave a fifteen-year-old behind.
For five minutes, nothing happened. Even the dog had fallen silent. We opened the car’s windows to get some air.
Suddenly, a shout from the other side of the wall alerted us. A brilliant white light split the darkness, silhouetting the figure of a man on top of the wall, who waited an instant, then jumped down. He landed with a cry of pain, and a couple of soldiers ran forward. Immediately, another figure appeared on top, swung his legs over, then paused.
"Jump," the soldiers cried. "Quickly. We’ll catch you."
A shout of “Halt” from behind encouraged him and he leaned forward. A rattle of automatic fire fractured the stillness, and then he was falling, in slow motion, down, down into a crumpled heap at the foot of the wall, where he lay motionless. Almost at once there was another short burst of gunfire from the other side, followed by screaming, silenced abruptly by a single shot. The searchlight went out.
"Bastards, that makes up the six," said the colonel. "Two more victims of the socialist utopia of Walter Ulbricht."
"I feel sick," said my brother.
"Don’t you dare," barked the colonel, then, more gently, "you okay, Richard?"
"Yes, sir, I think so," I replied in a subdued voice.
A woman broke free from the group behind the ambulance, ran to the body, lifted it into her arms, and rocked and howled her grief into the night.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Richard Newell was born in England nearly 80 years ago and educated at Oxford and London Universities. He retired after almost fifty years practising medicine and decided to try writing. He has self-published a book of short stories for young adults (and older ones!) --> FACEBOOK
From the back seat, I could see the traffic ahead being diverted. It was a hot and humid night and the streetlights were pale in the unseasonal mist that swirled thinly round them. The colonel, who was driving, muttered under his breath, cursing the delay, while his civilian passenger - my brother - picked absently at his thumbnail.
"Did they say how many?"
"According to my radio report, three so far. But the first one across said the whole family of six was on its way."
We inched forward. When we reached the roadblock, the colonel briefly switched on a small blue light, perched discreetly on the dashboard. The policeman saluted as he waved us through, and we made good progress for the next two hundred metres.
"We’d better stop here," said the colonel. The road had ended in an open space with some ruined buildings barely visible nearby. Across this space, stretched out in front of them, was a four metre high concrete block wall, topped partly with barbed wire. It looked unfinished and dropped down to three metres as it disappeared off to the right. The car edged forward until we could see a handful of armed British soldiers grouped around a military ambulance, parked well back. A dog barked in the distance. The whole scene was like an old black and white movie, without any other sounds of life or movement.
I leaned forward between the front seats. "What now?" I whispered.
"We wait and watch, then your brother and I go back to our offices and send in our reports. You, my boy, stay out of sight and do nothing, because officially you’re not here." I was spending my school holidays with my diplomat brother and we had all been dining out at a lakeside restaurant when the call came through, and the older men did not feel they could leave a fifteen-year-old behind.
For five minutes, nothing happened. Even the dog had fallen silent. We opened the car’s windows to get some air.
Suddenly, a shout from the other side of the wall alerted us. A brilliant white light split the darkness, silhouetting the figure of a man on top of the wall, who waited an instant, then jumped down. He landed with a cry of pain, and a couple of soldiers ran forward. Immediately, another figure appeared on top, swung his legs over, then paused.
"Jump," the soldiers cried. "Quickly. We’ll catch you."
A shout of “Halt” from behind encouraged him and he leaned forward. A rattle of automatic fire fractured the stillness, and then he was falling, in slow motion, down, down into a crumpled heap at the foot of the wall, where he lay motionless. Almost at once there was another short burst of gunfire from the other side, followed by screaming, silenced abruptly by a single shot. The searchlight went out.
"Bastards, that makes up the six," said the colonel. "Two more victims of the socialist utopia of Walter Ulbricht."
"I feel sick," said my brother.
"Don’t you dare," barked the colonel, then, more gently, "you okay, Richard?"
"Yes, sir, I think so," I replied in a subdued voice.
A woman broke free from the group behind the ambulance, ran to the body, lifted it into her arms, and rocked and howled her grief into the night.
Richard Newell was born in England nearly 80 years ago and educated at Oxford and London Universities. He retired after almost fifty years practising medicine and decided to try writing. He has self-published a book of short stories for young adults (and older ones!) --> FACEBOOK
It Was Silent
by Edna Ikpi
“I don’t believe death is the end, it’s just the part where silence gets a voice. Life is the ghost that haunts you for no reason.” I sighed. “I like death.”
“Don’t say things like that,” Mama scolded, fork halfway to her mouth, eyes bulging with fear.
My shoulders bounced in a shrug. “Okay.”
“Vina.” She dropped her fork and took my hand. “Life is beautiful, and precious, and full of wonderful, amazing things.”
She was trying to convince me. She had that look in her eyes that she always has when she was trying to implore you.
“Life is boring. I think it’s just a test that no one ever passes. There’s so much more freedom on the other side.”
“Where do you even get that?”
“Zach.”
“He doesn’t exist, honey. He’s only a figment of your own imagination.”
But she was wrong. Zach did exist; he was standing right behind me with his hands on my shoulders. He squeezed. I smiled.
The first time I met Zach, I was seven. He knocked my candle over, then immediately apologized.
“Oh jeez, didn’t mean to knock over your lamp there, eh. Sorry ‘bout that.”
I looked up from my place on the bed. “Who are you?”
His brown eyes scanned the place, his blue flannel flapping with the sudden wind. “Didn’t know they rented it out already.”
My eyes lit up. “You’re the boy that used to live here?”
He smiled. Nodded his beanie covered head. “Aye.”
We talked all night. He told me about his time in Canada, and how he loved the maples.
I asked him how he got into my room. He shrugged. “I’m a ghost.”
“Vina!” Mama’s voice snapped.
I flinched.
“You need to stop talking about dying, or else…”
I wanted to yell at her, to tell her that she didn’t know what she was missing; but I nodded.
Zach and I had a plan anyway. Today I was going to get my ticket to freedom.
I’d visit France, then Switzerland, Mexico, Italy. Just like Zach had been doing while I went to school.
“I never understand why people are so obsessed with staying alive.” Zach muttered.
Me neither. And we were the young ones. Don’t they feel like life is a punishment? Worse yet, for a sin we have no idea of.
Today was my seventeenth birthday. Mom left for work and I cleared the kitchen. I wouldn’t be able to after today.
As Zach and I walked to the river, the winds howled.
“They’re rejoicing.”
I looked at Zach. “Over what?”
“You breaking free.”
He gave me his hand. I took it. I climbed the bridge.
“Welcome home, Vina.”
I let go. The water grabbed onto me in a cold embrace.
But when I opened my eyes, Zach wasn’t there. There was only stillness and darkness.
He lied to me. Death wasn’t freedom.
It was silence.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Edna is a recent graduate of linguistics and communication, and a lover of stories, language, music, and learning. The young female lives in Nigeria where she shares stories from the comfort of her bed, and helps others bring their own stories to life.
“I don’t believe death is the end, it’s just the part where silence gets a voice. Life is the ghost that haunts you for no reason.” I sighed. “I like death.”
“Don’t say things like that,” Mama scolded, fork halfway to her mouth, eyes bulging with fear.
My shoulders bounced in a shrug. “Okay.”
“Vina.” She dropped her fork and took my hand. “Life is beautiful, and precious, and full of wonderful, amazing things.”
She was trying to convince me. She had that look in her eyes that she always has when she was trying to implore you.
“Life is boring. I think it’s just a test that no one ever passes. There’s so much more freedom on the other side.”
“Where do you even get that?”
“Zach.”
“He doesn’t exist, honey. He’s only a figment of your own imagination.”
But she was wrong. Zach did exist; he was standing right behind me with his hands on my shoulders. He squeezed. I smiled.
The first time I met Zach, I was seven. He knocked my candle over, then immediately apologized.
“Oh jeez, didn’t mean to knock over your lamp there, eh. Sorry ‘bout that.”
I looked up from my place on the bed. “Who are you?”
His brown eyes scanned the place, his blue flannel flapping with the sudden wind. “Didn’t know they rented it out already.”
My eyes lit up. “You’re the boy that used to live here?”
He smiled. Nodded his beanie covered head. “Aye.”
We talked all night. He told me about his time in Canada, and how he loved the maples.
I asked him how he got into my room. He shrugged. “I’m a ghost.”
“Vina!” Mama’s voice snapped.
I flinched.
“You need to stop talking about dying, or else…”
I wanted to yell at her, to tell her that she didn’t know what she was missing; but I nodded.
Zach and I had a plan anyway. Today I was going to get my ticket to freedom.
I’d visit France, then Switzerland, Mexico, Italy. Just like Zach had been doing while I went to school.
“I never understand why people are so obsessed with staying alive.” Zach muttered.
Me neither. And we were the young ones. Don’t they feel like life is a punishment? Worse yet, for a sin we have no idea of.
Today was my seventeenth birthday. Mom left for work and I cleared the kitchen. I wouldn’t be able to after today.
As Zach and I walked to the river, the winds howled.
“They’re rejoicing.”
I looked at Zach. “Over what?”
“You breaking free.”
He gave me his hand. I took it. I climbed the bridge.
“Welcome home, Vina.”
I let go. The water grabbed onto me in a cold embrace.
But when I opened my eyes, Zach wasn’t there. There was only stillness and darkness.
He lied to me. Death wasn’t freedom.
It was silence.
Edna is a recent graduate of linguistics and communication, and a lover of stories, language, music, and learning. The young female lives in Nigeria where she shares stories from the comfort of her bed, and helps others bring their own stories to life.
Slow Leak
by Katrina Irene Gould
Dating Joe proceeded like a slow leak in my bike tire. The rider with a slow leak assumes that pedaling feels harder because their backpack is jammed with too many school books or they didn’t get enough sleep the night before. It can take a while to twig to the fact that they no longer skim along the blacktop because their tires have lost air.
I should have predicted we’d end up here. Truthfully, Joe and I had never “skimmed along the top” of anything, even in the beginning. We’d settled – in all the ways that word implies. On our first date, I sneaked glimpses at my watch while Joe explained why his photo of a dewdrop on a rose, and the jazz on his turntable, were Good™.
Three weeks into winter term, mononucleosis dragged me down. I couldn’t have been happier for this break and its impact on my love life. I’d retain the cachet of a boyfriend while simultaneously having the perfect excuse to avoid him. During our phone calls, Joe told me he’d seen our friend, Stacy. Apparently, she didn’t think I was a very good girlfriend. What could I do? I had mono.
When the term ended, the doctor pronounced me well enough to return to school. Joe and I usually met in the library before first period. I hoped we could limp along through the summer. Waiting till August would spare us the discomfort of splitting while still in school; it was practically routine for people to break up once they headed to college.
Walking to the library one morning felt like climbing a hill with both tires flat. I slapped on a smile and sat beside Joe.
"I've got something for you." He opened his backpack.
I sat up straighter. Every show I'd ever watched that included these words ended with a piece of jewelry. Who didn't like jewelry? Maybe we weren’t as far gone as I'd thought.
Joe reached into his backpack. "Close your eyes and hold out your hand."
I did as he asked. Joe gripped my wrist, winding something around my index finger, the sensation not at all similar to a band of metal. I opened my eyes. A short piece of scratchy, dun-colored yarn lay loosely knotted where a ring might have been. A string around a finger was for remembering something important. What had I forgotten?
Before I could ask, Joe spoke. "This is for you." His lips pulled tightly against his braces. "The next time you need to wrap something around your finger, you can use this instead, and leave me out of it."
It was like he’d jammed a stick between my spokes, I was that shocked. Apparently I’d forgotten to wonder how Joe might be experiencing our perfect arrangement.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Katrina Irene Gould has spent thirty fulfilling years as a psychotherapist in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has appeared in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, The Gilded Weathervane, HerStry, Mukoli, Glacial Hills Review, Literally Stories and others. Gould examines our knotty human experiences in hopes of creating more compassion for our struggles.
Dating Joe proceeded like a slow leak in my bike tire. The rider with a slow leak assumes that pedaling feels harder because their backpack is jammed with too many school books or they didn’t get enough sleep the night before. It can take a while to twig to the fact that they no longer skim along the blacktop because their tires have lost air.
I should have predicted we’d end up here. Truthfully, Joe and I had never “skimmed along the top” of anything, even in the beginning. We’d settled – in all the ways that word implies. On our first date, I sneaked glimpses at my watch while Joe explained why his photo of a dewdrop on a rose, and the jazz on his turntable, were Good™.
Three weeks into winter term, mononucleosis dragged me down. I couldn’t have been happier for this break and its impact on my love life. I’d retain the cachet of a boyfriend while simultaneously having the perfect excuse to avoid him. During our phone calls, Joe told me he’d seen our friend, Stacy. Apparently, she didn’t think I was a very good girlfriend. What could I do? I had mono.
When the term ended, the doctor pronounced me well enough to return to school. Joe and I usually met in the library before first period. I hoped we could limp along through the summer. Waiting till August would spare us the discomfort of splitting while still in school; it was practically routine for people to break up once they headed to college.
Walking to the library one morning felt like climbing a hill with both tires flat. I slapped on a smile and sat beside Joe.
"I've got something for you." He opened his backpack.
I sat up straighter. Every show I'd ever watched that included these words ended with a piece of jewelry. Who didn't like jewelry? Maybe we weren’t as far gone as I'd thought.
Joe reached into his backpack. "Close your eyes and hold out your hand."
I did as he asked. Joe gripped my wrist, winding something around my index finger, the sensation not at all similar to a band of metal. I opened my eyes. A short piece of scratchy, dun-colored yarn lay loosely knotted where a ring might have been. A string around a finger was for remembering something important. What had I forgotten?
Before I could ask, Joe spoke. "This is for you." His lips pulled tightly against his braces. "The next time you need to wrap something around your finger, you can use this instead, and leave me out of it."
It was like he’d jammed a stick between my spokes, I was that shocked. Apparently I’d forgotten to wonder how Joe might be experiencing our perfect arrangement.
Katrina Irene Gould has spent thirty fulfilling years as a psychotherapist in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has appeared in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, The Gilded Weathervane, HerStry, Mukoli, Glacial Hills Review, Literally Stories and others. Gould examines our knotty human experiences in hopes of creating more compassion for our struggles.
College of Philosophy
by Derek McMillan
The College of Philosophy were holding their annual general meeting in Scoresdale Village. We did not anticipate any trouble from a group of philosophers, not compared to punk rockers for example.
Among other things they were selling a handkerchief which appeared to have one pattern when folded and a different pattern when opened out. It "represented the complexity of life" apparently. At £5 each it also represented the cost of living.
‘Have you seen this?’
Constable Burgos always read the Daily Star after putting up with all that banter about him being illiterate.
He read deliberately.
‘Underwater slavery. ‘
‘Women have been lured by romantic weddings including some underwater ceremonies. The weddings, mostly involving the same groom, are fake but the domestic slavery is all too real.’
‘A woman dubbed ‘the masked avenger’ (the mask was scuba gear, he explained) put a spanner in the works by cutting the air pipe of the groom which led to his doom.’
‘That’s a mixed metaphor,’ he said proudly. ‘Groom and doom rhyme,’ he added.
In a cafe in Scoresdale, one of the small dramas which were a feature of the AGM of the College of Philosophy.
The philosopher nominated as "murderee" Doctor Amanda Scrace was sitting having a meal in a popular local restaurant. Leading celebrities of the College were in attendance.
So were we. We had an anonymous tip off that Doctor Scrace was in fact the soi-disant "masked avenger". Constable Burgos was just looking around at the celebrities around him with awe and I had to keep reminding him to keep his mind on the job.
The nominated "murderer" entered the restaurant to applause. He stalked up to the murderee and said dramatically, ‘I have come to kill you’
In accordance with tradition, Doctor Scrace responded, ‘Obviously you are not or you would have done it by now. Will you talk me to death?" ‘ Her companions applauded.
The gun went off and the guest of honour sank gracefully to the floor. By tradition she would then get up and make a meandering speech about the futility of existence.
Not this time. She was very dead. The College had two medical doctors (in fact it had five). Two certified the death as a heart attack.
By tradition the College applied to the authorities for what they called a Viking funeral.
The shrouded victim was put into a long boat which was set afire at a safe distance from shore. Members of the college thronged the shore and unanimously confirmed they had seen Amanda’s soul leave her body. She gave the College a tedious benediction which was well received.
A Scoresdale local saw Amanda rising from the remains of the shroud and yelling ‘YOU BASTARDS!’ but the resident knew better than to say anything. The underwater slave trade resumed after a decent interval. No link to the College of Philosophy was established. In addition to doctors, they also had some very expensive barristers.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Derek McMillan is the author of the cheerily entitled "Murder from Beyond the Grave" which is available on eBay.
The College of Philosophy were holding their annual general meeting in Scoresdale Village. We did not anticipate any trouble from a group of philosophers, not compared to punk rockers for example.
Among other things they were selling a handkerchief which appeared to have one pattern when folded and a different pattern when opened out. It "represented the complexity of life" apparently. At £5 each it also represented the cost of living.
‘Have you seen this?’
Constable Burgos always read the Daily Star after putting up with all that banter about him being illiterate.
He read deliberately.
‘Underwater slavery. ‘
‘Women have been lured by romantic weddings including some underwater ceremonies. The weddings, mostly involving the same groom, are fake but the domestic slavery is all too real.’
‘A woman dubbed ‘the masked avenger’ (the mask was scuba gear, he explained) put a spanner in the works by cutting the air pipe of the groom which led to his doom.’
‘That’s a mixed metaphor,’ he said proudly. ‘Groom and doom rhyme,’ he added.
In a cafe in Scoresdale, one of the small dramas which were a feature of the AGM of the College of Philosophy.
The philosopher nominated as "murderee" Doctor Amanda Scrace was sitting having a meal in a popular local restaurant. Leading celebrities of the College were in attendance.
So were we. We had an anonymous tip off that Doctor Scrace was in fact the soi-disant "masked avenger". Constable Burgos was just looking around at the celebrities around him with awe and I had to keep reminding him to keep his mind on the job.
The nominated "murderer" entered the restaurant to applause. He stalked up to the murderee and said dramatically, ‘I have come to kill you’
In accordance with tradition, Doctor Scrace responded, ‘Obviously you are not or you would have done it by now. Will you talk me to death?" ‘ Her companions applauded.
The gun went off and the guest of honour sank gracefully to the floor. By tradition she would then get up and make a meandering speech about the futility of existence.
Not this time. She was very dead. The College had two medical doctors (in fact it had five). Two certified the death as a heart attack.
By tradition the College applied to the authorities for what they called a Viking funeral.
The shrouded victim was put into a long boat which was set afire at a safe distance from shore. Members of the college thronged the shore and unanimously confirmed they had seen Amanda’s soul leave her body. She gave the College a tedious benediction which was well received.
A Scoresdale local saw Amanda rising from the remains of the shroud and yelling ‘YOU BASTARDS!’ but the resident knew better than to say anything. The underwater slave trade resumed after a decent interval. No link to the College of Philosophy was established. In addition to doctors, they also had some very expensive barristers.
Derek McMillan is the author of the cheerily entitled "Murder from Beyond the Grave" which is available on eBay.
A Particular Pigment
by Evan Davis
“Out of my way!” shouted Umberto.
The painter's assistant charged and bullied his way through the crowd. Some women shouted, some men shrieked, and plenty of things clattered to the ground as the large man barrelled past the onlookers. “What am I even hoping will happen?” he thought to himself as he looked up. “What can I even do?”
Umberto had never been bright as a boy, and his parents had been poor. But he had always been bold and quick to action, so when fate saw him save a man's life down by the riviera one day, he had been rewarded with purpose.
That rescued man was the infamously eccentric artist Vincenzo Albiti, who was today painting a portrait for his patron. The portrait in question was to be of this patron's prized toad, which had an exquisitely rare copper color to it. Umberto had dutifully hauled his master's easel up many flights of stairs to the tall balcony where the painting was to be done. It was no Torre di Arnolfo, but the climb was worthy of his legs.
“The flavor of the light today,” Vincenzo had said, “it must be done here, in this high place.”
As he could be relied upon to do, Umberto forgot one of his master's personal effects in the gondola which brought them, and so was returning on street-level when he paused to take a breath, watch the clouds, and appreciate his lot in life.
This also afforded him an excellent view of the toad as it leapt from its perch by the easel and now plummeted to the streets below.
“Move!” Umberto bellowed once more, and thinking quickly, he snatched the net from a nearby fisherman to use and catch the toad before it could hit the ground.
The net strained the poor creature onto the sun-bleached stone with immaculate, horrifying grace, like a sieve relieving fruit pulp of its juice.
Umberto threw himself at his master's feet when the old painter approached. His chin quivered madly with shame, and his eyes were wet with tears.
Vincenzo Albiti silenced him with a wave. His cheeks slowly curled into a smile which brimmed with pride, and he said in an awe-struck voice, “It's...perfect.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Evan Davis is an author with an overactive imagination, which explains how he got here and why you're reading this – which is great. His work can be found with Third Flatiron Publishing, The NoSleep Podcast, Flame Tree Publishing, Abyss & Apex Magazine, among others; plus a blog he occasionally updates (thelightofday.blog).
“Out of my way!” shouted Umberto.
The painter's assistant charged and bullied his way through the crowd. Some women shouted, some men shrieked, and plenty of things clattered to the ground as the large man barrelled past the onlookers. “What am I even hoping will happen?” he thought to himself as he looked up. “What can I even do?”
Umberto had never been bright as a boy, and his parents had been poor. But he had always been bold and quick to action, so when fate saw him save a man's life down by the riviera one day, he had been rewarded with purpose.
That rescued man was the infamously eccentric artist Vincenzo Albiti, who was today painting a portrait for his patron. The portrait in question was to be of this patron's prized toad, which had an exquisitely rare copper color to it. Umberto had dutifully hauled his master's easel up many flights of stairs to the tall balcony where the painting was to be done. It was no Torre di Arnolfo, but the climb was worthy of his legs.
“The flavor of the light today,” Vincenzo had said, “it must be done here, in this high place.”
As he could be relied upon to do, Umberto forgot one of his master's personal effects in the gondola which brought them, and so was returning on street-level when he paused to take a breath, watch the clouds, and appreciate his lot in life.
This also afforded him an excellent view of the toad as it leapt from its perch by the easel and now plummeted to the streets below.
“Move!” Umberto bellowed once more, and thinking quickly, he snatched the net from a nearby fisherman to use and catch the toad before it could hit the ground.
The net strained the poor creature onto the sun-bleached stone with immaculate, horrifying grace, like a sieve relieving fruit pulp of its juice.
Umberto threw himself at his master's feet when the old painter approached. His chin quivered madly with shame, and his eyes were wet with tears.
Vincenzo Albiti silenced him with a wave. His cheeks slowly curled into a smile which brimmed with pride, and he said in an awe-struck voice, “It's...perfect.”
Evan Davis is an author with an overactive imagination, which explains how he got here and why you're reading this – which is great. His work can be found with Third Flatiron Publishing, The NoSleep Podcast, Flame Tree Publishing, Abyss & Apex Magazine, among others; plus a blog he occasionally updates (thelightofday.blog).
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