Yesteryear Fiction

Paper Lives
By J. Edgar


Eight men sit at a table.

Between their leveled stares, their measured words, the fate of an empire, the fate of thousands, if not millions of lives, hangs in the balance.

With a word, the uneasy truce between nations could be shattered, all that each side has gambled on, worked so hard to build, reduced to ashes in an instant.

One man stirs regardless, stares pointedly at another man.

“I’ve held my men in check long enough.” He says. “Even the prophesy of the gods states that your lands will be the first to fall.”

“I’ve always known that you would be the first to cast aside your values and turn a blind eye to the needs of the people.” The other man all but snarls.

Hands flex, eager. The man sitting at the head of the table cracks a smile, shifts.

“Both of you,” he says. “Roll for initiative.”


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I once saw a man in a purple coat!