Narratives

The men arrive without warning. They are peculiar-looking creatures—these sudden strangers—clad in neither tunic nor armor but a clinging fabric smoother than creased linen and tougher than soft wool. Wielding a gleaming cylinder-shaped contraption with a wiry serpentine tail, they battle the earth with thunderous surges of air, as if they have bound Aeolus, god of winds, to their will. 

There was an efficient hum of activity in the hotel lobby of the New York hotel that day. Men in expensive suits, women in designer dresses, and the staff in smart uniforms were all going about their business. The scene was reminiscent of the days of old: art-deco architecture, heavy carpeting, brass fixtures, and crystal lamps — luxurious surroundings at their finest.

The full moon stared down in dismay as Leisl sighed. She had only a moment until the rite must be performed, yet the leaves on the ancient oak tree refused to regrow. Geisterholz Forest remained barren; bare branches twisted their arthritic fingers into the gloom of the blackened sky.

Swiping bold stripes of face paint on my cheeks, I felt the adrenaline soaring through my body. This would be the year I’d come first, get my name in the newspapers, and finally beat Benson. It was my seventh time competing… and my seventh time coming second place.

A cup of coffee grew colder in a café on the frigid outskirts of Paris, but Henri LeBarre seemed to pay no mind to the dwindling threads of steam. No, Henri’s eyes were fixed far in the distance, any thoughts of his five Euro coffee going to waste pushed far from the front of his mind. He was wearing one of his best shirts – as he always did whenever he came to Café Rêveur – and his fine silvery hair had been carefully combed to the side.