Read by Martin Lamb
“I'm forgetting something.” His eyes were closed; his fingertips pressed into his temples. His hands quivered as if straining to hold the skull together.
“It couldn't be that important. You never forget anything,” observed his wife as she diced peppers for a salad. The kitchen opened over a bar to the dining room table where he sat. She glanced up at intervals to regard his lone figure, elbows driving divots into the pea-green placemat.
“You look like you're praying,” she laughed.
If you would like to read the rest of this story, please check out Weird Lies, the recent Arachne Press anthology in which it, and many other fantastical stories from the League archives, appears.
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