Jason Anthony

On Reaping On Threshing

The lanky man in the black suit closed the door gently and Tom could see now the thing left. Sitting before him was a small white pressed clean metal box. It’s code had been input on its shining metallic dials and now sat open. A thin sliver of darkness could be seen between it’s top and its bottom halves, only separated by a gleaming handle and the shadow of what appeared to be an open pocket sized black notebook. Tom thought to himself silently of the dialed code.