Luke Earl Mullins
Bio
Stories (2/0)
Interitus Omnia
“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But what about a billion screams? What about hundreds of billions of screams? What about scores of civilizations innumerable erased without a trace? Do you think we could hear their screams?”
By Luke Earl Mullins2 years ago in Fiction
The Night They Arrived
There weren’t always dragons in the valley. I’m old enough to remember that fact, though I suspect few can say the same. I was but a boy in those days—a year shy of thirteen—but in the farthest reaches of my memory I can still smell the wild harebells and musk mallows on the hillside behind the family cottage, their sweet scent carried on the spring breeze of a cool morning in the age when men ruled that land. I can still taste the berries we’d pick off the prickly bushes that grew between bracken and moss-covered stones near the clear stream past Haveshire road once our chores were complete and we were free to run and play as children do. I can feel the dew on the grass beneath my bare feet as I ran in a fit of laughter with other Davonry children—for that was the name of the dale village in which I was raised. I hear still the songs echo through the valley, hymns of forgotten words sung, it seemed, by a chorus of angels in every corner of the basin, whether from home, schoolyard, or field. At times, one would nearly believe that the birds had joined in on rhythm and the butterflies danced along, though I suspect imagination the culprit of such thoughts. Though the lyrics have long-since escaped me, the melodies return to me now and again even in my old age, reminding me of what once was. I hum along to the song in my head, closing my eyes to see a lost world once more when the valley was green rather than black, and happy life blossomed as if ignorant of such a thing as death. I see my family cottage. I see the water wheel on its northern wall, dipping its troughs in a cool mountain stream. I see the chimney on its southern wall puffing out a bit of smoke. I see a wooden sign in front of the home and, on the sign, I see a name painted—Darrow.
By Luke Earl Mullins2 years ago in Fiction