Z. E. Wayland

Though the sight of these snow struck hills are beautiful, nobody could forget its danger. Nobody knows this more than the exiles. Banished to the edge of the maps, they flock in the night to survive. Brenna sits on a high perch tower with weapons nearby. An owl returns to its spot along the wooden tower’s low wall with a new piece of prey, an unfortunate mouse, between its claws. “Share?” She asks. The owl promptly ignores her. It is not her owl, after all.  “Odin doesn’t know you well enough for that, Brenna.” A second owl says as it perches next to her. It unfurls its wings, feathers transform to fingers, talons to feet, owl to Cyrene, the exiled druid among them. “Takes time for an animal o get used to you. Even if it is comfortable being around other people.” The two, and the owl, on the high perch keep their eyes watchful for dangers that stalk the night. Brenna, distracted, could not take her eyes off the village itself. If it could even be called a village.  “Why do we...

That little funeral sure was the bee’s knee’s, wasn’t it? Her body wasn’t brought to the park, but she wasn’t going to be buried under the playground. You came anyways. Lucky you. Didn’t have to see her body. Crushed, crashed right as she pulled out in front of the high school. Nobody saw it coming. You even laughed when they called you, told you she died. Absolutely impossible, you thought. After all, being a teenager came packaged with the feeling of immortality. You didn’t feel it here. You didn’t feel it the day you arrived and realized that her desk would be empty forever. Lucky you. You became the best trumpet player in the band. Sure showed those skills when you lined up with your other band members. The dirge didn’t fit the tone. It was a sad pop song from a movie. And she hated this song, but none of you have any time to practice something new. You all knew that and when the song ended, laughed about it. Not too loudly of course. Not while you were exchanging your trumpet for ...