Publisher's Synopsis
On a bitterly cold morning, I lay half awake, cognizant to the sound of the crying wind as it wiggled through the small cracks in the circular bay window above my head. Countless attempts to seal the tiny crevices where the stained glass joined the wooden panes with fresh layers of white silicone only seemed to worsen the situation. The decayed old particles cracked and flaked, leaving minuscule passageways for the outside world to gain entrance in the two story sanctuary. The attic, adjacent to the bedroom was dark, but not completely barren of life. The tangerine light of the full moon sifted through the rotting ventilation eaves in the end walls revealing cobweb-festooned rafters under a 45 degree peaked roof. Moist silk aqueducts linked together throughout the entire attic allowing swift passage for the carnivorous arachnids that patrolled the area like German Gestapo guards outside Block 11 in Auschwitz. The sticky orb traps, meticulously spun by a handful of hungry arachnid protected the book of short stories from curious insects that unknowingly trespassed their temple. These fanged vampires were the sentinels of the attic, the guardians of flayed humans. They stood vigil over something that was no longer there, honoring ways that had long ago ceased to exist except as a distant memory. Deep inside the attic, these vermin slept sound, for they lived in a dream world where heroes walked tall during the wee sleeping hours of the night, and chivalry and justice were synonymous with honor. Only the Story Teller survived and these are his stories.
