The Faceless Knight and Midnight

Faceless Knight on his horse, Midnight.

They said he was tall, tall as a mountain. His eyes shone bright as burning coals, they whispered, and his horse’s hooves sent sparks flying whenever it struck the ground. They told stories, of the faceless knight and his black horse, and of how they were four once. Now only the one remained, roaming the land. No one knew what drove him, nor what his destination was. Yet all accounts agree on one thing – he never took off his helmet.

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Sad Golem

Fremont Troll in Seattle, WA, United States. Next best thing to a golem.

Tucked away amid snow-capped mountains a thousand thousand years old, hidden behind a wall of forest thick and impenetrable and green, there lay a lake, its waters crystal-clear. You could be standing on the tip of any of the seven and one towers rising to vertiginous heights above and you would still be able to see the mountain trout swimming at its bottom, so pristine it was. On starry nights, you’d need but gaze into the waters and the crown of heavens was right there, within reach. Indeed, you have never seen a lake like so, until you rested your gaze on it.

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The Visitor

Empty bench.

Dear Visitor,

It’s been a while, since last we met. You showed up unexpectedly, as you usually do. I’ve come to expect no less from you – your arrival unannounced, no heads-up you’re on your way, then a knock on the door in the middle of the night. For some reason, you never stick around for too long. Perhaps it’s the nights which are too short. Come morning, I can barely recall you came. Your passage is but a fading memory. I wake up wishing perhaps next time it’ll last longer.

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Sand Before the Storm

Sand but no storm in sight. A rare, peaceful night on Vera IX.

Lieutenant Commander Dallas Drake, formerly of UNT Directory, leaned against his leg, his boot firmly planted on a lump of sandstone. Squinted at the clouds of dust and sand sweeping the violet-tinted horizon. Unconsciously, his hand fished for the pack of cigarettes he’d tucked in a side-pocket of his trench coat. Plenty of time for a smoke, he reckoned.

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Decay, in one of its many forms.

Decay has always been an obsessive fascination of mine. Like an old friend who, whenever I thought he’d run out of stories to tell, would surprise me with one I haven’t heard before. He’s always been there for me, for as long as I remember.

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