Burning butter. I sniff again. Yes, absolutely. Sweet and rich, but with a black vein of smoke. This smell means nothing to me. I’m sure of it. Then why do I know exactly what it is, without hesitation? The burning of butter carries no significance for me, there is no connective tissue, no memory comes, immediate, borne on wings. Then why is there a horrible chill in my collarbone, in my knuckles? Continue reading


The blood in her cheeks was freezing. Lightning burst in the night sky, each flash casting a smash of light over Castle Bergens, sat high and far in the Carpathian mountains. It would appear so stark and bright before vanishing once again into darkness. It looks like it’s getting closer, Little Maxi said when the lightning once more threw up the mountain range. Lizbeth pushed him along, bade him comfort wee Tilda, who was inside, out-screaming the thunder. As he ran in, she stood there at the gate just a moment more, her red hair whipping in the water and wind, watching the storm play out. Continue reading