Patrick D. Lynch
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Stories (2)
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It Was I
I killed her father. Little Alodie, maybe twelve years old now, staring up at me with eyes so wet and blue, just like her old man. O, if she only knew. Would she take that knife flecked with potato skin and thrust it into my belly? Or would she prefer to cut my throat and watch the blood pour down my chest? What sweet justice it would be for her to watch me die. At night she would finally sleep soundly knowing that her father’s killer lay in a shallow grave, his soul burning in hell for his misdeeds.
By Patrick D. Lynch4 years ago in Fiction
The Cost of Magic
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Nor was I. “Do something, you damned fool!” shouted Adekin. Over the gates, the stick-bundles walls plastered with mud, the serpents thundered their wings, sweeping to and fro. The young men of the village rode in wild circles on their steeds, the glint of steel broad swords flashing like lightning. It was early afternoon, yet the blaze of burning homes darkened the sky.
By Patrick D. Lynch4 years ago in Fiction
