“See for yourself,” Jacob said, stepping aside.
“Oh, wow.” The young reporter leaned down, her eyes widening.
Jacob smiled at the look on her face. He glanced at the organ behind layers of glass and smiled even wider. A beating heart. An artificial heart. And he had helped to create it, design it, mold it, and nurture it. It seemed to beat stronger, as if it were showing off. It still surprised him sometimes that he found it beautiful. He’d seen so many hearts in his time with the tissue regeneration research laboratory. Pig hearts, frog hearts, human hearts. He had respected them all, but never found them beautiful. Nor did he feel that way about this artificial heart until three days ago, when it started beating for the first time.
The reporter straightened and though she turned her head slightly towards him, her eyes remained on the heart. “How long has it been going?”
For centuries, he stalked among the villagers at their smithies and spinning wheels. He haunted their dreams with the fear of his ever-growing appetites for treasure and for flesh. They crafted swords with jewel-encrusted hilts, stitched crimson robes with gold brocade, raised ever plumper cattle, all for one wicked dragon.
Ignoring the sounds of sizzling and the smell of cooking flesh and the searing heat, she closed her eyes and cast her memory back to the day they came. Children. She had never had any particular need for them, but neither had she any particular objection to them. Not that anyone would believe so with her “peculiar” ways. Continue reading
In the middle of the forest sat a stone hut, and always from this hut came the scent of amber. Within the hut there lived what the nearby villagers believed was an old god. A god so ancient that none remembered his name, what he was the god of, or even if he was a “he.”
The Amber God, some called him. Continue reading
Stories abound. They are everywhere. Some stories are massive and glorious like a monument, a structure of marble and stained glass. Some are humble and simple like a puff of cloud or a puddle of water. And some stories–most perhaps–are somewhere in between, small, but complex, more than first meets the eye…like a feather.
Everyone has stories. Here, I will tell you some of mine.
Welcome to Storyfeather.