Sunday, January 9, 2011


Ice and Fire
By E.S. Wynn

When you press your ear to the breast of the marble god with the icy-throated howl, the wisdom of the future comes echoing through, soaking into your skin, muscles, bones. There is no fire in the future he screams, only biting frost, only cruel ice, but in his mind’s eye, you see the secret his very existence so completely hides. Those who seek the fire will only find it in the hearth, in the darkness. There, chained and gagged, lays a god wrought from pure, polished bronze, a god whose silenced cries would sing of things his eyes have not set upon since his soul was bound and forgotten.

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It calls. I wonder at the sanity in my answer.


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