Paul Adams

Gods Remain

The Locket was a piece of history, torn from its place, steeped in misery, and spit out into the cold husk of rooms that continued uninterrupted for miles in every direction. It was pure information displayed without filter. Like a cylinder seal of ancient Mesopotamia, the surface was crisscrossed with lines, forming a design like Sanskrit or some other forgotten tongue. The Servile held it tentatively, religiously, could barely keep hold of it with trembling hands.