The snow is gone. The seasons change, just as they did at home, once upon a time before the world was old and tired and ready to die. I... do I change? I move in circles. I try to pray, though I no longer have any idea to what God I send my half-formed prayers. If any God at all. Is the Island a God? Was I mistaken the whole time? Whose voice did I ( Read more... )

I remember snow. I remember it fairly well, actually; even towards the beginning of the end, as the greenhouse started to run away with us, Boston got a flurry or two. Even as an increasingly ashamed populace tried to pretend that maybe it had never been there at all, I remembered it. So clean and white and quiet, with almost a sweet taste on the ( Read more... )

It was like the world was ending. It came complete with signs, and that same atmosphere of creeping terror so thick it was like you could reach out and run your hands through it. I have been here before. I should have seen the signs, read them correctly.

Since I arrived here I've felt that my sight is gone. It hasn't bothered me until now.

Why ( Read more... )

It makes him miss his ma ( Read more... )

He had been trying to avoid it, but enough was enough.

The Ecthroi had been lurking for weeks, always just dark right at the edge of his vision. Calvin hadn't been sleeping much as he spent nights trying to stay awake listening for their tell-tale screams or murmuring Meg's Name against her hair. It had got to be a mantra, almost. Meg Murry, ( Read more... )

Once upon a time, Katurian had been the sort to write only happy stories, complete with loveable protagonists and endings that were always, always perfect. But this, of course, was a long time ago; twenty-two long years, to be exact, since his writings had been innocent and untainted by what he'd come to learn life was really like. And yet, it ( Read more... )

She sees it. A streak of white darting among the leaves. Each time they come a little closer. They become a little more daring. She can smell it this time. That rotten flesh stinch. Musty and ancient. Unique. She can hear that hollow, wheezing breath, that crackling dry rattle under the rustle of leaves. The axe hangs at her side, ready, her hand ( Read more... )

Helen Hoover Boyle hadn't come to terms with her son's frozen body being on the island. Every now and then she found herself wanting to go back to the clinic and stare into his face, his calm and pacified face, but resisted the urge. It would just be too difficult to face Patrick once more ( Read more... )

Bee had decided it had been long enough ( Read more... )

So it seems that this place isn't as peaceful as I'd thought ( Read more... )