Category: The Pocket Muse

Every step thundered across the deserted tomb, each one making Cristof cringe as if the ghosts of the doomed were stirring at his presence and preparing to pull him down to join their shadowy graves. For this was Egypt, 1837, and Cristof was no archeologist. Each step deeper into the pyramid felt like an amassing…

As she journaled in a diary of memories, experiences, and emotion, the turning of a page still felt in the pad of her thumb, Geraldine felt eyes all around her, watching her. Her heart raced. She was sitting in a cafe. The cafe on NW 21st Avenue bustled with the expected business of a typical…