Yesteryear Fiction

A New Day
By E.S. Wynn


To John, the golden disc of the rising sun had always been a personal omen, a light of rebirth that slowly cauterized old wounds, burnt away the pain, the things that did not matter, leaving a clean, scoured slate in their wake. Everything he wore was carved and cut deep with runes, armor and helm, sword and skin, everything. The marks of a warrior. His father had told him on the day his family had burnt the first rune deep into the center of his young chest. He who can bear the runes, can bear anything.

And I have. He thought bitterly, closing his eyes as he soaked up the early sun, drew it in, allowed it to cleanse him. But today is a new day, a day unbound by previous days in any way that the soul understands.

Slowly, he stood, said a quick prayer to the goddess of merciful death. The king would lay butchered on his throne before the day was over.


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The first draft of the epic of Gilgamesh was written by E.S. Wynn, but his dog ate it.