Father Michael Hayes had stopped praying three years ago, though he still moved his lips during Mass. The words came automatically now, muscle memory from two decades of priesthood. Hoc est enim corpus meum. This is my body. Empty syllables. Theatrical gestures. He elevated the host and saw nothing but […]
Greg Mitchell had always found comfort in broken things. In a world of sleek touchscreens and wireless everything, his cramped radio repair shop in the narrow lanes of Cheltenham stood as a defiant anachronism, cluttered with vacuum tubes, resistors, and the ghosts of technologies past. The locals called him peculiar;
The package sat on the porch for an hour before Jack bothered to retrieve it. He eyed the box warily, like it might bite. It had been a drunk purchase, made in the dead of night after his fourth glass of whiskey and a failed attempt at writing Chapter One
