Connie's Little Bits of Fiction

Lorn chased eclipses. This life, of getting up to travel, of hoping the eclipse’s totality was reachable, was frustrating. She wanted to stop the chase, but at least for now, continued.

He was asked to come to the temple to record their beliefs, to ensure their truth would be remembered and shared.

“No, that’s just trying to return to the status quo,” she said.

Occasionally, when walking through the passages, one of the doors she would try might be locked. The next, though — that would open.

Door 256.

When she was 13, her parents walked her out of the valley and into the forested hills. The monastery that stood there was already old, its eaves leaking in the rain, its fencing struggling against rot.

Your last day before retirement is a relief. Work friends have organised evening drinks at a bar down the road from the office. It’s intended to be a celebration: of you, of your work, of the value you’ve brought to the company in the last decade.

Red. The colour of blood. The colour of an open wound, of pain.

Your name is Rot.

The flyer he found in his letterbox read: