June 6, 2016

From “The Symbol on the Barn” by Lyman Robbs

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They said it was tradition.

He said it was superstition.

Neighbors watched, sullen and withdrawn, as the Stokes boy painted over the curved symbol on his family’s barn, one that had been there since it had been raised.

His father had carefully repainted it every year, but the Stokes boy was fresh from ag school and knew better.

Two weeks later they found him dead in the paddock. Someting had trampled him to death. The coroner’s report said horses or cows, but the neighbors knew what was a hoof print and what wasn’t.

The day after the wake, the youngest Stokes was up on a ladder, painting the symbol from memory.

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May 12, 2016

From “The Razor of Dawn Cuts Too Deep” by Franz Arwood

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And then she cut the sky asunder with the Razor of Dawn, and the clouds fell by the wayside like so much shredded linen. The sword was dull, and its heavy silver metal would not have withstood even a single stroke in combat, but that was not its purpose.

The farmers rejoiced, for their drowning and soggy crops would now be saved by the healing light of the sun. She left the blade with the folk of that place, cautioning them to only use the Razor of Dawn when it was truly needed.

Naturally, that lasted less than a year. Soon, the weak-willed hands into which the blade had been put were cutting away thr clouds every winter’s day for a longer growing season and more pleasant weather. But without the winter snows, and without the spring rains, there was no water to feed the crops or the people.

Even after the farmers realized their mistake, it was too late. With so much sun, the soil dried out and was washed away by the spring rains that they allowed to fall. What little was left blew away in the windstorms that followed.

The Razor of Dawn itself was lost as the community dissolved, and the stranger that has bestowed it was never seen again.

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