This Sleep of Death

A Maguire
12 min readJan 29, 2021

Cold was the only thing she could feel, weighting her limbs, fogging her senses, distorting her thoughts. Cold pressure against her mouth. A radiating cold of the stone table beneath her. Even the light was cold, streaming through the slits of the turret, draining the stone of hue.

Laughter. A voice, deep and rough. Another, harsh and high, the caw of a crow.

A Maguire

Writer, dreamer, developmental editor, book coach, farmer and mother.