These aren't the stories your mother told you.

No, these are by Eric L. Williams.

It's the flavor, isn't it? The man said.

Eyes red and lip quivering. It's a unique profile. It's the Himalayan Salta. I think it'd

rather... There was a sadness in his voice. Underneath, hidden under layers of history and loneliness.

Yes, quite. I think it'd rather... When Edward first found Brookwell Manor, the large slab of pale Victorian architecture

out there in that field, lost amongst the overgrowth of surrounding woods and greenery,

he cried. He dropped to his knees and sobbed into his aching palms.

It was the first piece of man-made construction he'd come across for two weeks.

After spending a hellish fortnight in the woods and fields of Old Wessex,

Lost and Alone, he'd near enough given up.

The birdsong sending him to madness, his own stomach eating itself,

the muscles and joints of his body withering and ready to snap. He'd had to jettison his

wheelbarrow, which contained what was left of his belongings because he didn't have the energy

to carry it. Instead, leaving the time capsule of his life

out there in the woods for someone to stumble across. The stately home sat at the top of a

small hill with rolling gardens, bordered with once beautiful walls of flowers and shrubbery.

A stone stairway led the way up to center towards the entrance.

Passed a dead water fountain decorated with a mildewed statue of a singing cherub.

The little babe's face exploding with rust and mold. It took Edward an hour to climb those

steps to the entrance to what he hoped would be his salvation. Running on hunger and

desperation, he kissed the cross that hung from his neck as he pushed the wooden door. It

...