Author Sara Saint John

Atrum Tempestas (The Dark Storm)

Blood Atonement
Trust the Night
Black Hearts & Red Blood Dreams
Fear Itself
Sinister Landscapes
Atrum Tempestas (The Dark Storm)
TWoM Anthology
The World of Myth Anthology II
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Editor in Chief
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I'm proud to be included in Black Hound's first Horror Anthology!


I'm honored to share the pages with these wonderful authors:


"Harlequin" by Sarah Basore (aka Sara Saint John) 


Harlequin approached the simple, solitary cottage. A line of windows warmed the structure's stone walls-each square a reflection of golden sunlight, painting the walls with flame. Tilting his head in curiosity, Harlequin moved closer. Heat from the panes leeched into his palms as he peered inside. The small room was whitewashed and meticulously clean. It held a lone human occupant, a woman with wild auburn hair framing her face. She hummed a pleasant tune as she sat rocking in a primitive wooden rocker, its back and forth motions keeping cadence with her song. An enormous cat graced her lap. Smiling, she stroked its back. Harlequin imagined the cool silky feel of the animal's fur under his palm, then shook his head in rueful remorse. Cats didn't like him anymore. Not wishing to reveal his presence, or at least not yet, he released a burst of silent laughter. How ironic, the animal's appearance. The black and white pattern of its coat was known as harlequin. Could it be a sign from the gods? If an omen, he wondered if it portended of good...or evil.

His sigh carried on the wind as if it searched for her hearing. If only the woman would speak. The kindness with which she treated the animal communicated to him a nature of gentle integrity. A thought came to him and the possibility made him gasp. Could this be the woman of whom the gods had spoken? She who would mean either his salvation, or his doom?

Happiness blossomed in his chest. Unable to contain his exuberance, Harlequin broke from his hiding place. He began to run and the fleeing became a dance as he twirled in circles throughout the small yard. It was as close to flying as he could come. His feet trampled multitudes of colorful wildflowers growing there in random design. Yellows, reds and purples died beneath the soles of his jester's shoes. Crushed blossoms formed his wake, as if his tights were melting, becoming puddles in the grass. 

His heart raced with the joy of the dance...with the possibility of freedom at last. Unable to resist, once again he peered through the window. The cat met his gaze. It erupted in a fur-spiked hiss and bit the hand that once caressed it.  

Atrum Tempestas
Ride the Dark Storm

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