WriterOfStuff

Andy Lane Of the things my mother had taught me before I left for college, her list of hangover remedies had proven to be the most useful. As I trudged from my room into the kitchen, the heel of one hand pressed into my forehead, I could justify the first two beers. I could even make an allowance for the third, because it was rude to join someone for drinks and not have one. It was the next two that had me questioning my judgment, internal accusations bordering on charges of masochism. The pounding of my head offset whatever gratitude I might have had for the rest of the night’s events, and any further assessment of my mental state wou

Scott Reilly They had been sitting in the same room for the last two hours and it was beginning to wear on everyone, from their client to the opposing counsel and everyone else in-between. Taking a deep breath, Scott flicked another quick gaze toward the phone in his hand, silently wishing he’d received a response to the text message he’d sent halfway through this debacle. Whether or not it looked good to be exchanging messages with your roommate like an adult version of pass the note, something needed to change about the moment. Gaze lifting, he allowed himself to look at the woman seated opposite him, trying to figure out how

Andy Lane He wore a sharp, pressed suit that matched the color blue in his eyes, his blond hair styled and his posture statuesque as he sat across from me. His hands folded nicely on his lap, he made me wonder if we had gathered together for an interview or for an afternoon tea, though my visits to Scott’s homestead might have affected my feel for the latter. As Allen Hughes smiled, something about the gesture struck me as odd and out-of-place, and not for any lack of genuineness. Maybe it’s because I knew too well what he was hiding in the effort. “Is that muscle memory?” I asked, both breaking the silence and the i

They say they found his body lying face down on the carpet, a spilled glass of Johnnie Walker Blue beside him and a cigar burned to cinders in an ashtray on his desk. The coroner report said he had been like that for two hours before his wife, Denise, checked on him while intending to retire for the night. Pictures of both the deceased CEO and his widow accompanied the stories in the papers, forming the backdrop of my thoughts as my professor Dr. George Vasquez paced the floor in front of his Current Affairs class. He glanced at me for a moment before shifting his attention away. “The press coverage of Henry Devlin’s death,̶

You wear a crown of thorns upon your head Blood droplets like tears stain A gown as white as snow As you cry out for deliverance From the ashes gathered at your feet. Once shamed; twice fooled by beauty. I touched your crimson hands Thinking they contained salvation Oh, Madonna, intercede for those You have led astray. Twice taken in by madness I lost myself inside your holy writ Lain prostrate at your altar thinking That I might be a worthy sacrifice Your one true acolyte But I am not your only martyr. And your porcelain cracked revealing Obsidian beneath your robes A fiction in your prayers And lies within your truths And as the veil dr

The fact remains consistent for both wild animals and adolescent boys; the more you attempt to tame one, the more it will resist. I remember the first day it became clearest to me my time at Jeffrey’s farm had come to an end. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I squinted against the harsh sun and saw nothing before me but unadulterated horizon, stretching out into infinity. The crops surrounding me formed a prison, the sickle in my hand a shackle I had held onto faithfully since my father’s death. My own demons had been pursuing me, and after two years had captured me where I stood. My brother stilled the oxen and called to me when

My eyes scanned the mantle first. When I failed to see anything of any direct importance, I shifted to the darker side of the room and lit one of the lamps poised by the far wall. The small flame grew in stature until the immediate area became consumed by a warm, pleasant glow. Drawing a deep breath inward, I breathed in the scent of burning oil and began a much closer examination of the entryway. What I expected to see first lay exactly where I thought it might be, painted over the doorway with fine brush strokes and barely visible unless you walked up to it. A circle broken by two lines – which cut the shape into three equal parts  &

Nine years later. 18 September, in the Year of Our Lord, 1465 Just outside Exeter, England. The men keeping watch over Lord Betrand’s residence had indulged far too much beer over the course of the night. I watched from the shadows, seeing them progress from jolly to raucous and smirking when they made the final turn into incoherent. With one dagger, I picked the dirt from my fingernails, a tune I’d heard sung in the tavern hours ago still running through my head. Another dagger remained impaled through a squirrel that had come too close, threatening to disclose my location. I found it ironic how many other creatures had follow

He stood nearly a foot taller, and looked to be a decade older. I’d never seen him before, but from that day forth, I would never forget what he looked like. Chestnut-colored hair and cold, gray eyes. A full beard, which covered his lips, and a distinct facial profile. The stranger walked up beside me and set his sights on the innkeeper, but the name he spoke made my blood run cold. “Have you heard of a man named Richard Hardi?” There I sat, all of fourteen years to this man’s twenty-four? Twenty-five? It was hard to gage solely by looking up at him. He still bore the benefit of youth, but the gravity of his gaze sug