Ten Tales from the Shadows
🤠Thursday Roundup!🪢 for June 26, 2025.
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Good Eeeeveneing, Substack. It’s time for another 🤠Thursday Roundup!🪢, and boy it looks like I found the suspense section of the stack. Each tale is dark or suspenseful in some way. I know you can find it.
If anyone cares to guess what the candles are for, you can post it in the comments below.
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Our first tales comes from M.S. Olney and is named “Phantoms.”
It is chapter seven of Myths of Aldara. The content page is here.
The tunnel seemed to swallow them whole, its narrow, high-ceilinged walls echoing their every sound. Overhead, roots from nearby trees poked through the ceiling, creating a mesh-like canopy. The ground underfoot was hard-packed earth, damp from the constant seepage of water down the tunnel walls. An eerie silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the occasional drip of water and their footsteps echoing in the vast underground passage.
"You think this tunnel is safe?" Jaxon whispered to Thalen, his eyes darting nervously to the roots hanging low from the ceiling. The natural canopy swayed ominously as they brushed against them, showering them with droplets of cold water.
"I hope so," Thalen replied, keeping his voice equally low. "But we need to trust the Peri for now. Remember what it said about the Fiends?"
"Yeah, but I didn't sign up for this. Creepy tunnels, weird flying creatures, and goddess knows what else is waiting for us," Jaxon grumbled, his voice carrying a note of despair. Despite his complaints, they moved steadily forward, guided by Lyra who held a vial of glowing liquid to light the way. After what felt like hours of trudging through the tunnel, they started to see a glimmer of light at the end.
“Is that the exit?” said Elara hopefully.
As they got closer the air changed, it was somehow fresher despite them still being underground.
“By the Goddess,” Jaxon exclaimed as they emerged from the tunnel and into a vast rocky chamber. It was so vast that they couldn’t see the ceiling and before them was a vast stone city. Dead ahead was a tall spire like structure with a dazzling bright sphere situated at the top. It was the source of the light.
“It’s as bright as day down here,” Thalen remarked in amazement. He could see other spires in the distance and like the first they hosted a similar glowing orb.
“What is this place?” Jaxon asked.
“I have no idea. I’ve never heard of anything like this. Especially so close to Arcadia.”
Lyra sighed and shook her head.
“How low has humanity fallen? How much have you forgotten and lost?” she said cryptically.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” bristled Jaxon.
Lyra looked at him with an almost piteous expression.
“Come, let us venture into this city,” she said ignoring his question. “Remember what the Peri said. Do not leave the path no matter what you see or hear.” (To Continue, click here.)
From an eerie underground village to outer space. Beckyj47 gives the tale of a unique tradition in an alien army. “Cultural Exchange” starts with:
“You’re a corporal,” I managed, after an extended pause.
Acting General Ace Hymera beamed. “Sure was, three days ago. Now I pass inspection every time!”
I wasn’t certain I understood D’nevian military command structure, but this seemed a bit much. “How’d that happen?”
“I rescued him, so I got the job.”
“Oookaaay…” I made a circling “go on” hand gesture.
Hymera cocked his head and grinned at me.
“I. Rescued. The. General. Therefore I got the job of Acting General. Surely your military does the same thing?”
“No. No, they don’t. Rescue a general? Yeah, you’ll get a commendation, maybe even a promotion. But you certainly don’t get promoted all the way from corporal to general!” I shook my head. “This is kinda crazy, you know that right?”
Hymera’s grin faded. “Why is it crazy? I mean, I know one thing that every military on every planet, in every galaxy has in common… the enlisted are the ones who get things done. Officers get in the way. Right?”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’m with you so far.”
“Right. So, on D’nevia, if enlisted personnel save a general or other officer, whether his or her predicament is of their own doing or not, said enlisted personnel becomes an acting general or captain, or whatever rank the officer they saved is. Keeps officers on their toes and gives us something to strive for. Now I’m an acting general. I’m off to find some of those less-than-gifted officers I served under for the last ten, fifteen years and have conversations with them.”
I stared after Hymera as he trotted off, presumably to find those less-than-gifted officers. This cultural exchange was going to give me some good stories.
The original can be found here.
Ian Dunmore caught my attention with this little story called, “The Shadow that follows”
The dusk was blue and murky. Snow and sky merged together in the failing light. He shambled into the village.
Waterlogged boots encased his freezing feet. One foot was clubbed, and that one dragged behind — the pain had long ago dissolved into an uncanny prickle. His blue eyes wandered. His caved cheeks drew tighter. His sharp nose ran with mucus. Starvation tunneled out his stomach.
Icy mist rendered everything suspect: that pattern of wicker fence, thatched huts ahead with their faint internal glows, the shape of a chapel’s crooked steeple, a distant and uncertain treeline. False contrasts. If he approached they might dissolve.
His eyes flew behind him again but then came another coughing fit. He fell to his knees. The chill gloom, or something darker still, was taking residence in his chest and on his shoulders. In his delirium he almost hallucinated coughing himself away into smoke and vapor.
“Ho, there!” came a man’s voice up ahead.
He looked up and saw a shadow emerging from a hut. “Please…” he retched.
“Who are you, Sir?”
He pulled his hat off to reveal his tonsured head. “A Servant of God! My name is Maroczy!”
“A monk?”
“Aye… I am… I was… afore the Magnate disbanded our monastery last spring.”
The shadow’s voice fell. “You should turn back, Brother Maroczy.”
“I can’t!” Maroczy coughed again. “God’s mercy, I’ll die!”
“There’s naught for you here.”
“I’ve nowhere else to go! Please… I’m starving! And…” he descended into coughing but fought to speak more, “and something’s out there! I…”
The coughing took his breath away. His head grew lighter, his body heavier, and he collapsed.
***
Ague afflicted his wits. Time turned slippery. He had only vague memories of what followed. Coughing. Feeding on soup and cream. More coughing. Warm ale. Thick tea. Coughing.
Lucidity found Maroczy lying in a poor man’s bed beneath a hoary light cutting through the shutters above his head. Late morning. Or early evening.
He bolted upright in panic. Despite the lingering sickness he snatched his bag off the dirt floor and took inventory: a few tattered clothes and a rectangle wrapped in velvet. His hat and coat sat folded nearby.
He sighed. Nothing stolen. He’d been on the road and fearful for too long.
Through the frame of the bedroom door he could see the hut’s entrance and before that the faint glow of a cookfire. An old man of thick constitution sat there slicing roots into a small pottage cauldron. Maroczy arose and walked there, and his host regarded him with one eye — the other lazed away toward the door as though wary of another visitor. “Good morrow, brother,” he said.
Maroczy recognized the voice as the man he’d met on the road. “Good morrow, Sir. I… I…” he put his sleeve to his mouth and coughed again. (To continue, click here.)
Our next tale is Lovecraftian in nature, but not what you expect. “Lovecraft over Tehran,” by Constatin von Hoffmiester is a sure read.
Israel has issued an ultimatum to Iran: allow the strike on nuclear sites or face destruction of oil refineries and economic collapse. In essence, Israel demands immediate capitulation and declares readiness for full-scale war. Cthulhu is watching.
The ultimatum descends like a shriek from the stars, an edict carved into scorched stone by a desert people who remember Amalek. Israel speaks from a height where thunder grows fangs. The sky above Iran opens, a gaping maw revealing no angels, only the slow-motion performance of missiles and radar sprites. The decision arrives in binary: submission through silence or defiance through flames. There is no middle path, no negotiation wrapped in velvet. Just a sword hanging on a hairline crack of sovereignty. The voice of Israel carries across the wastes like an ancient wind, like a growl from the mouth of Dagon: terrible and calm.
The Iranian elites lie on the sacrificial stone of this age, naked and unveiled. To exist is to be measured. To move is to be watched. Above the cities called Persepolis and Shiraz, the drones hover like mechanical seraphim, blind and brilliant. The leaders must speak through constricted lungs, each word a sacrifice, each silence a cut. Israel’s demand carries the shape of ritual. If the Iranian elites dare the deed of resistance, their refineries — black-blooded organs — will rupture. If they submit through stillness, those organs may continue to throb beneath the skin of the market. One sound, and the entire economy dissolves into mirage.
This is a theology of fear rewritten as geopolitics. Beneath every phrase from Tel Aviv, Lovecraft’s apparitions gather: disciplined sentinels of an ancient will, shaped by silence and severity, unreasoning to those who fail to fathom the deeper logic of survival. These elder forces slumber in war rooms and missile silos, stirred by the covenantal memory of Sinai and awakened with the precision of a nation born in fire, guided through destruction towards sacred alignment, where prophecy arms itself and the grammar of war becomes the architecture of enduring order in a world slipping into myth.
What sleeps beneath Dimona dreams in vectors and warheads, equations that understand only detonation. The stars are wrong again. In the desert, the gods speak in military briefings. Every nation now becomes a rite. The refineries are the temples, the centrifuges their choirs. Violence sanctifies. Diplomacy desecrates. (To continue, click here.)
“The Town that Forgot to hope,” is another great story by Father Roderick.
The story mage smelled the rot before he saw the town.
Rain slicked the mossy stones of the path, a drizzle painting everything in shades of grey. Even the birds had stopped singing.
He stepped through the crumbling gate and paused. A tavern leaned wearily at the square’s edge, shutters creaking. A sign dangled from one rusty chain, half-swung and faded—The Rusty Anchor.
Inside, the mood was worse than the weather.
The hearth had gone cold. The stew tasted like old dishwater, and the bread could’ve served as a building material. The innkeeper barked orders with the passion of a wet towel. Patrons stared into their mugs like they’d forgotten what joy looked like. No one argued. No one laughed.
Across the square, the church doors stood ajar. Inside: dust, stacked pews, and silence. No incense. No candles. No congregation.
He found the priest slumped behind the building, sitting in the mud on a broken stool.
“They took everything,” the man murmured. “Even the portrait of Our Lady. Burned it with the cattle bones.”
The story mage said nothing. He simply sat beside him and listened. Rain drummed on the chapel roof.
After the Shadows
They had come months ago. Hooded men with torches and blades. No one knew who they were—only that they brought rain that wouldn’t stop and ruin that wouldn’t leave.
They killed most of the livestock and left the rest to rot. The fields drowned. Mud swallowed the roads. Keepsakes—rings, lockets, hand-carved toys—were thrown into fire pits like trophies. Not for gold. Not for gain. But to break something deeper.
And it worked.
The villagers no longer blamed their leader. He sat in a silent house, staring at the empty frame where his wife’s portrait used to hang. The others followed suit—doors unlatched, gardens wild, dreams shelved.
Worse than despair was resignation. A few had even begun whispering: Perhaps it would be better if they returned. At least the brigands had built things after burning them down in other towns. Harsh masters, yes—but they gave orders. Purpose.
The story mage walked the streets, spoke with the people, watched how their shoulders drooped even in conversation. Empathy helped, but it wasn’t enough.
So he prepared a story spell. (To continue, Click Here.)
Our Next story promises to be great. S.E. Reid has made “Rabbit’s Foot” the first chapter of her next Ivy story. If you haven’t subbed to Mama Reid’s page, you should.
“Clothing for all weather, check. Toiletries, check. Sunscreen, bug spray, flashlight, water bottle, hand sanitizer, check, check, check, check, check…”
Ivy lowered her phone—screen glowing bright with the official Fort Ferris Summer Camp packing list PDF—when she heard her dad chuckle beside her. He was driving, his worn ballcap pushed back away from his forehead, left arm resting on the open window frame as the tentative heat of July’s asphalt rose up and whipped past the old pickup truck.
Ivy frowned. “What? I want to make sure I got everything.”
“Little late now, isn’t it?” Pete said, glancing at her with gentle humor. “If you don’t have it, you probably don’t need it. Quit fretting.”
“What happens if I do need something?”
Pete shrugged. “You’re not hiking the backcountry, kiddo. You’re only half an hour from home at the most. Just call us.”
“Sure, great,” she muttered, “except I won’t be allowed to have my phone.”
Pete waited, squinting into the rearview mirror at nothing. Ivy noticed that he was doing that more often, these days, as she got older. Waiting. Taking a beat, instead of rising immediately to the challenge when she pushed against him. It used to be rare that she felt argumentative, but lately the snappish words came out before she had a chance to even think. Her brain seemed to trip over itself.
“Sorry,” she said, into the quiet. “You’re right. There’s a phone in the camp office.”
“Well now, there you go.” He smiled over at her. “And worst case scenario, you could always send a homing pigeon.”
She rolled her eyes, but smiled back. “Yeah, okay.”
“Or a bike messenger.”
“I get it, Dad.”
“Telegram?”
Ivy mimed choking herself and turned to look out the window as her dad laughed quietly.
“I hope you remember that this is supposed to be fun,” Pete added. “Just because you’re gonna be working, doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. Cut loose with your friends and have a blast. Right?”
“I know,” Ivy said. “I just really want to do a good job at this.”
But she didn’t say why. She couldn’t admit that out loud. Not to herself, not to anyone. Not yet.
Without warning, the heat in the truck plunged as Pete turned left off the highway and down the two-lane road leading into Fort Ferris State Park. It felt like diving into a frigid stream, the leaning trees stealing all the warmth from the air for themselves. The forest thickened around the truck, tall and dark, dappled sunlight filtering down on the road ahead of them.
Ivy’s heart was doing little complicated leaps and tumbles in her chest, excitement filling her limbs, knotting her stomach. She had been looking forward to this since early spring, when her friend Bailey dropped the most amazing news: Bailey’s older sister, Maia, had accepted the role of Camp Director at Fort Ferris after the previous director had retired last fall. It was the closest thing to knowing a celebrity that Ivy had experienced. But it was even better than knowing a celebrity, because Maia had given Bailey permission to stay with her at the camp over part of the summer, and said Ivy could come along, too, as long as the two of them did some work at the camp as staff-in-training. At sixteen they were too young to be counselors, but there was plenty of other stuff that they could do. (To Continue, click here.)
Caitriana Nicneacail wrote a short story. “Sundews”
Sunlight scattered from a thousand water beadlets, sprinkled like seed pearls on star-spangled green. It was the most alive-looking colour I’d ever encountered, green on the verge of fluorescence. I scanned slowly. It wasn’t my first time going over this terrain, but I had to hone my ability to spot my target. Time would be of the essence. I’d done a lot of jobs for Mr. Smith — not that I’d ever thought that was his real name — but this was going to be a tough one. And the last one. I’d promised myself that. I deserved that, at this stage in life. A chance at the straight and narrow.
I caught a glimpse of something nestled in the sphagnum moss, a corner-of-the-eye coral-redness in the green. I looked closer, marvelled at the slender tongues with their tiny tentacles, each carrying a crystal-ball payload of sweet snare. A tiny fly landed on one and the tentacles began to curl. That’s the end of you, mate, I thought. I checked the shape of the leaf. Mr. Smith, like all collectors, was very fussy about the subspecies he was looking for. Drosera something hebridensis. Just look for the notch at the end of the leaf.
My optics fuzzed, flickered, then blacked out completely. I tried restarting the sim, only to get a warning: Insufficient Signal. I swore and tried again. Nothing. I’d expected some signal loss as we entered Sjoland, but not nothing. When I got back to civilisation, I would have to find that guy who sold me that booster and get my money back, or his incisors for my collection. Figuratively speaking, of course; I’m not a violent man. There was nothing for it but to make the best of it, so I combed my hair, put on my second-favourite cravat, and went out on deck.
These fancy cruisers are supposed to compensate for the roll of the waves, but one look at the way the deck pitched this way and that made me very glad the anti-nausea aug was working. I headed forward to the bit with the sun-loungers, trying to spot how far we were from land, but the horizon was grey with mist and the wind was scourging the deck like a whip. My fellow-passengers were all very sensibly inside, other than Annoying Erica.
Annoying Erica had latched onto me right at the start of the cruise. If I were a vain man I’d have said she was keen on me, but I suspect it was more to do with us both being twenty years younger than everyone else. She must have been wealthy, of course — Mr. Smith paid something like a million crowns for my ticket — but she’d not used her cash for any kind of augs that I could see, and she dressed like a deckhand on a trawler. She was leaning on the rail now, staring into the grey horizon. I turned to try and get back to my cabin, but too late. (to continue, click here.)
“Born of Ash and Iron” is a nifty little science-fiction story by Andrew Sears. I haven’t read this all the way through yet, so we’ll do this together. So far, it stands at five chapters.
Captain Richard Volm gripped hard against the handrails surrounding the central command table. He surveyed the Type-88 destroyer’s command deck with a withering gaze. The small vessel had been “confiscated” from the Rhyno Commonwealth by Volm and his compatriots after they had rejected the Commonwealth’s “offer” of admittance.
“Captain,” His First Lieutenant saluted with his dark grey mottled hand. Like Volm, Lieutenant Alkora was a former political prisoner of the Rhyno Confederacy. They’d grown up together on Katchi and were the only two native Declanian on the crew. Their hairless, dark grey skin stood out and unnerved some warmer colored races. “None of the LACs made the subspace dive with us,” Alkora said.
The LAC’s disappearance was hardly surprising. Volm knew the Light Attack Craft were separated in the previous fight, drawing off the Commonwealth task force. He scratched his thumb on the textured handrail, briefly distracted by the uncertainty of their fate.
The Commonwealth builders hadn’t expected Declanians with their sensitive skin to serve onboard the craft, and every surface seemed covered in knurling or carbon fibre. Volm let out a small sigh, returning his attention to their escape. “Savant and Cascade?” He asked, inquiring about the two destroyers that had hung back to cover their retreat.
“We’ll know within the next few hours when our telescopes pick up the action,” Alkora replied. There was a hint of hesitation in his voice as he continued. “Surely it’s already played out, but we’ll need to wait for the light to catch up.”
Volm nodded. He understood the concept of the speed of light and knew diving into subspace allowed them to travel the relatively short distance between the planets faster than light could. Yet, it was still hard to wrap his head around the fact that less than fifteen minutes ago, he had watched the two destroyers turn back into the oncoming Commonwealth fleet so Volm and his crew could escape.
“Ack,” Volm said, moving closer and speaking softly to his friend. “I checked the Confederacy logs we seized. A small supply station is orbiting near Somari 8’s ring field. I want to lash the three destroyers together and dock with the station to maximize our ability to effect repairs.” (To continue, click here.)
“Valor in the clouds” takes place in D.W. Dixon’s alternate earth where airships roam the skies instead of airplanes, where technology has branched off in a different direction.
The early morning sun cast long shadows across Baltimore's industrial district as Trenton Sparrs hefted his toolbox and followed his father through the gates of Consolidated Textiles. At twenty-two, Trenton had inherited his father's lean build and steady hands, though his sandy hair and earnest blue eyes gave him a younger appearance that often worked against him in their line of work. Factory foremen preferred to deal with older men when their expensive machinery broke down, but Trenton had long since proven his worth with wrenches and diagnostic skills that rivaled his father's decades of experience.
“Morning, Mr. Sparrs,” called out Tom Bradley, the factory's shift supervisor, as he approached with the hurried gait of a man whose problems couldn't wait. “Thank God you're here. That new hydro-ionic loom on the third floor seized up around midnight. We've got orders backing up and the floor boss is having fits.”
Trenton's father, Mitchell Sparrs, nodded with the calm assurance of a man who had seen every kind of mechanical crisis Baltimore's factories could produce. “We'll take a look, Tom. Hydro-ionic systems can be tricky—lots of moving parts, high pressure. But nine times out of ten, it's something simple.”
As they climbed the stairs to the third floor, the familiar sounds of industrial production surrounded them—the rhythmic clacking of conventional looms, the hiss of steam vents, and the steady hum of the hydro-ionic power distribution system that had revolutionized American manufacturing. Trenton breathed it all in, finding comfort in the organized chaos of productive work.
The seized loom stood silent in the midst of its still-functioning neighbors, a complex marvel of engineering that could weave fabric faster and more precisely than anything previously imagined. Trenton set down his toolbox and began his diagnostic routine, checking pressure gauges, examining drive belts, and testing the responsiveness of various control systems.
“Pressure regulator's stuck,” he announced after twenty minutes of methodical investigation. “Looks like a bit of debris got lodged in the valve seat. I can have it cleared in about an hour.”
Tom Bradley's relief was palpable. “You're a lifesaver, Trenton. I was afraid we'd be down for days waiting for parts from the manufacturer.”
As Trenton worked, carefully disassembling the regulator assembly with practiced precision, his father moved through the rest of the factory floor, conducting routine maintenance on other machines. This was their life—traveling from factory to factory, keeping the industrial heart of Baltimore beating smoothly. It was work that mattered, work that directly supported America's growing war production. Every machine they kept running meant more uniforms for soldiers, more supplies for the front lines, more support for the boys fighting overseas.
Yet lately, Trenton had begun to feel an uncomfortable awareness of how that contribution was perceived by others. Just yesterday, he'd overheard two workers at Patterson Steel discussing the “slackers” who stayed home while “real men” went off to fight the British. The conversation had stung, even though he was certain they hadn't been referring to him specifically.
“There you go,” Trenton announced, reassembling the last components of the repaired regulator. “She should run smooth as silk now.” (To continue, click here.)
”Into the Valley so deep” by Victor Jiminez is our next to last story for the week.
Ryland hastily threw the woven sa'gra mat over the golden tablets. "Tahlee, you're early!" He rose from the dirt floor to greet her.
Tahlee pressed her cheek into his in chaste greeting. She scoured the hut with her eyes before settling on the lumpy mat cover. "What did you do now?"
Ryland widened his eyes in mock surprise. He formed his mouth into an exaggerated "O". "Whatever do you mean?"
Her mouth was a severe line. She stared at him until he felt himself wither. She said, "You went back, didn't you?"
He couldn't meet her gaze. He carefully looked at his bare feet. "Maybe?"
Tahlee gave an explosive huff. "You're not supposed to go there. The ruins are forbidden. What if you got caught? You'd get Shunned."
"Nobody is going to see -"
"Ryland! It's dangerous. The ground is poison. There are things there."
"I know. That's why I go." Ryland could see the little vein on Tahlee's temple. "I am very careful."
"The old gods still walk there."
"There's nothing there. Just peaceful grass and lopes grazing between the old stones and twisted metal. But," he lowered his voice, "by the cliffs there are walls, a sort of house. I found some things while digging there. Do you want to see what I found?"
"Is it safe?"
"Of course it's safe. It's just old words on metal plaques. Look." He pulled the sa'gra weave aside and picked one up. He held it out like an offering to Tahlee.
She took half a step back and squinted at it. "Can you read it?"
"Of course I can read it. The priest taught me how. Well, I can read them but I'll admit, I'm not sure what the words mean. There are a lot of them that don't make sense." He turned the one in his hand to look at it. "This one says 'Restroom'. I'm not sure why they would have a room to rest in."
Tahlee looked thoughtful. "I don't think this is a good idea. I think you need to get rid of them. If the Elders find out, you'll get Shunned right away and you know what that means." She quickly drew her finger across her throat.
Rylan bit his lower lip. "You wouldn't leave me, would you?"
"We're only trothed. We're not married yet."
"Tahlee!"
She shook her head. "I wouldn't want to, no." Her head hung, hiding her eyes.
Ryland took her chin in his hand and lifted it. He looked in her eyes and leaned down and kissed her lips. He smiled at her. "We only have to get the final blessing from the priest and we'll be married. What do you want for our wedding night?"
She smiled mischievously. (To continue, click here.)
Our Last story for the week is “The Sundering” by Carl Brown.
Clem Wilkins shook the ringing from his ears and grappled against the hard, dusty floor of the mine. His eyes stung, flashing with sparks despite the pitch darkness. Rising onto his strong but shaky legs, he gulped air, then instantly doubled over in wracking coughs.
He reached blindly for the shaft wall and missed, tumbling down as phlegm, blood, and silver dust raked up his throat. His head swam and the wheezing nearly made him black out.
The fit passed. A dry moan creaked past his cracked lips.
Miners called it “rocks in the box.” The doctor who diagnosed him called it “silicosis.” No matter the name, it came from breathing silver dust and it had no cure. Barely twenty years old, Clem’s damaged lungs had him on borrowed time.
Now, that borrowed time grew even shorter.
Another faint, echoing roar rattled the walls, sounding like a beast emerging from hell.
“It’s gotta be a cave-in,” Clem muttered. What else caused the sudden gust of pressure that snuffed the lanterns and sent him sprawling?
He searched his pocket for the matchbook kept for times like these. The little flame hissed to life, warring against the smothering dust. Clem spotted a fallen but intact lantern and hustled toward it. The match burned down to his fingers before he reached it, and he dropped it with a curse. Darkness returned with the smell of spent phosphorous, filling him cold fear. He grit his teeth and buried it.
Just like the cave-in that buried the others…
He checked the matchbox. Two left.
Family filled his racing mind: Joe, bayoneted at First Manassas by some Mick fresh off a New York City dock; Pa, his limp from Gettysburg leaving him near-useless for work; Ma, all grief and stubborn hope, still tending husband and surviving son, their devastated Shenandoah farm abandoned as Clem led them West to chase silver.
Clem struck the match against the wall. It flared and dimmed. Clem shielded it, his hand burning and shaking as he touched the flame to the lantern’s worn-out wick.
Nothing happened. The match slowly burnt down, flame falling like Clem’s heart into his sickened gut.
Then it caught, glowing to hopeful golden light. Clem exhaled sharply in relief and pocketed the matchbox. Turning up the lantern’s brightness, the big Virginian peered further down the shaft.
“Anyone alive down here?” he called, stepping cautiously. (To continue, click here.)
Hey, thanks for sharing my story!
Thanks for adding my story!