R. E. Dyer
Join me for a walk through imagination?
American Horror Story: NYC
“Have you seen Seven yet? It was made for you.” By mid-October 1995, at least a half-dozen people, most of whom had never met, friends from high school and college and work, all used the same phrase to describe an urban cop drama that was keeping them up nights and—it seems—making them think of me: It was made for you.
Motion. Left to right and back again, as if lolling in the curve of a bone-china bowl. Next, odor. Synth leather subdued by years of scent-free hypochlorite. Attempts to infuse cleaning aerosols with natural leather had resulted in a malodorous concoction passengers compared to a mixture of dead grass and spoiled meat. Carter didn’t need to open her eyes to know it was the AirTrak.
A House of Angles
“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.” Devin’s words come in halting bursts, but he punctuates them with an ironic laugh, wondering why he can’t resist scaring himself just a little bit more when the situation is already dire. His sneakers turn up furrows of leaves with every step as he departs the pitted mountain road for a lane that has gone untended for years. He goes without looking back, having given up glances over his shoulder over an hour ago.
Dragons of Deepmarch Mine
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Orren Braddock corrected that by blowing the holy hell out of Deepmarch Mine, and he visited misery on a lot of people by doing it. The things he woke took up residence all around the territories and weren’t much interested in going back to sleep. Men like me found ourselves in a new line of work. Instead of claiming bounties on the type of men who preyed on others, I started hunting creatures that preyed on people like they were food.
The Final Dragonspell
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. After they arrived, even death was not the end of them. A hundred years had passed since the Magister Uprising shattered the draconic empire, but it was impossible to look outside without seeing a reptilian silhouette curling the length of a snapping banner, or a worn effigy in the crumbling pillars of the old temple, or, most notably, the preserved bones occupying the exact spot where Alicorshon the Enlightened had sensed his imminent demise and surrendered to it.
The Case of the Mysterious Stewards
1. Dorothy Chambers filled her lungs with scents of mahogany and sycamore, freshly laid linoleum, and beige paint that may have finished drying while third-class boarded. All these struggled in vain against the perfume and sweat of Titanic’s first visitors. The sea held no power within this construct of steel plates and iron rivets. Dorothy closed her eyes, putting her mind away from the clamor of stewards and valets with their constant flow of instructions and reports. A smile blossomed on her lips.
The Asymmetric War
There is nothing metaphorical about the darkness that gazes long into Father Solomon Hart from the corner of his living room. Shades of gray adumbrate high cheekbones and a cascade of hair—a memory of the form it assumed for their first encounter—framing eyes that yawn into the deepest void. It crosses its legs in pantomime of impatience. The day’s battle begins.
Gram's Final Request
The last thing Gram let me do for her was get the quilted blanket out of the cabinet. It was classic Gram, asking for something in a way that made me feel like I was the one on the receiving end. By the time it happened, though, I was so grateful for a chance to do anything that might bring her comfort that I didn’t mind in the least.
The snowball hits her hard enough to knock her forward an extra step, a cold shove between her shoulders and a crumbling shower down the backs of her legs. Roused from her concerns over the twenty-page paper that is her cosmology final, she whirls about with a sharp curse prepared, words of power to make her attacker regret his decision. Then she sees him, walking backwards across the quad, dusting snow from his gloves, and she cannot utter the incantation.
Incident on Bald Mountain
The memory of every rational voice I have ever respected screams at me to slow down. Visibility is near zero and no emergency crews will risk a trip up the mountain till the weekend is over. The wipers can’t keep up with the fresh snow coming down, forcing me to squint through a narrowing arc on the windshield.
The Power Station
It was a long ride to nowhere, but there was no place they’d rather be. The city and suburbs gave way to fields of seven-foot cornstalks and then dense, late-summer forest. In the back seat the girls went from “I Spy” to adventure songs that started with “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt” and lingered on “We Are the Dinosaurs.” Royce hadn’t seen his daughters so excited since before the divorce, and they somehow found more energy when the thrum of pavement yielded to the crunch of gravel.