The Wistful Saga
The sky broke open. It was not a metaphor. The blue vault of the heavens split like a rotten apple. A seam of white fire ran from east to west. Then the ground shuddered. You stood in the field. The wheat was dead. It had been dead for months. A gray, brittle thing. The wind stripped the husks away. They danced in the air like ash. You held the stone. It was heavy. A river stone. Smooth. Cold....
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