Dmitar had been dreaming again. Out his window he could still see the Palace Gigantic in the moonlight, outlined as a starless darkness against the speckled night sky. Laying there he often imagined it as a great gorge in the stars, a spreading crack that kept its own constellations of priests going from window to window with their tallow buckets announcing the dead. They sang about his parents. About their crimes and their admissions, whispered to the Turgohl through scabbed lips. They disgusted him but he couldn’t stop himself from missing them as he sat wrapped in his burlap blanket blinking back sleep.


I write little things while I do tedious editing. I think I'll be posting them so I can look back over them as time goes on.

1 comment:

  1. You write beautifully. It's like a discourse of syrup.