Herxes Station

Photo by Luuk Wouters on Unsplash

Dirty walls. Filthy lights. A frozen void spun carelessly through twenty centimetres of pressed silica.

The band was busy setting up while the crowd murmured their assent. They were all here for the same reason. Not just music; that was implied by the posters, the homemade shirts, the thin station hallway packed full of stitched-together styles and clashing hairdos. Most of these people were miners, haulers, maintenance workers – the ones that did the work so others could live. Even with the small boosts to pay last quarter, these were thankless tasks, and the crowd was clearly a sea of comrades in arms, all frustrated beyond a doubt and looking for an out.

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Old Wounds, Fresh Faces

This is a part of my Fourth Age Witches series; you can find them all here.


The rain was heavy with purpose, landing with resounding thuds all around them; Taks thought it might be trying to cleanse the ground of battle, to remove old sins from the soil and soak the earth with hope instead. Maybe it was sick of the old world’s scars and wanted to wipe the slate clean.

With what had happened here, that was a losing battle in itself.

“Taks, damnit!” Marta bellowed as the tarp Taks had been holding slipped and flapped in the wind. “Hold it steady! Hog’s teeth, I don’t want to spend all night at it!”

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