John J. Vinacci

He’d climbed this hill a hundred times. It’d been 60 years, though, but the hill was still the same steep sonofabitch in the foothills few people bothered to summit. Jarod climbed, step-by-step, his cane steadying his once proud legs over the path’s occasional scree. Now, just like then, the journey bothered his left knee, only now a needling pain ricocheted from the outside of his knee to his ankle and back. It made Jarod gasp each time and he would chuckle; the pain, the hill, the memories – they were not long for this world. His silver mane tussled by the wind, Jarod scooped his head up towards the sky despite the sharp pinch in his neck and shoulder; it’s not here yet. His sexagenarian pocket watch – a gift from an unforgotten paramour – confirmed it. There was still time.   Time for what he wasn’t sure. To tell his human life to go fuck itself in the face of an Earth-shattering asteroid? To sigh in resignation that, well, at least it’s finally over? (And not just for him, ...

Battle-ragged steel spliced through another warrior’s skull, wetting the smattering of freshly fallen snow. Ulf whipped his sword back, throwing another line of red upon the earth. It was his thirtieth kill or so, though he wasn’t counting; only brash young warriors did that. At a certain point the kill count doesn’t matter anymore, just that you’ve survived as long as you have.   The battle had been raging for just more than two hours now. Fewer and fewer opponents appeared through the smoke and mist of winter war. Good , Ulf felt, he could use the rest. Maybe it was time to walk off the battlefield whether it was over or not. It was difficult to know when a battle was over so who would blame him if he left now? I thought I’d killed everyone , he would excuse himself if he had to.   Ulf’s broad, wolf-furred shoulders began to drop, a sign that he was losing his focus. No one came for him anyway. This likely meant his own brother was dead, killed in this very battle, f...