Editor’s Note: This story contains knife and blood play. Read accordingly please.
“The Season”
by T.C. Mill
This time of year finds them on the deep porch of the century-old farmhouse. It always will, even if they’re here in another century.
From under the overhang, they watch the rain fall. Leaves fall with it, beaten copper and winking gold coins dropping to the wet-darkened gravel drive. For an autumn day, it’s warm, and the porch is filled not with damp or chill but the sound: rattling and swelling like gusts of hungry breath. The pressure of the house looms above it like another thundercloud.
The last roses, pink as rare meat, have their heads bowed, heavy petals plucked by needles of rain. Out past the garden, along the tree-lined drive, it falls in such thick sheets that the world seems motionless. As if it has always been this way and always will be, seasons frozen in a silver amber.
They both know better.
Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: The Season by T.C. Mill