The Saints of Rapalm

A town smudged off the map. Statues made of bone. Eyes drawn and etched into every surface. I knew Rapalm would make me famous.

I’ve spent years being ignored by my colleagues in the literary world. True art imitates life, so when I began searching for the perfect setting for my next novel, I found something in this life worth writing about: Rapalm. It flew into my consciousness like the wind and refused to leave my mind. It haunted me from my dreams to the edges of my notebooks until I knew I had to find it.

Rapalm wasn’t on a map, in a book, or even recognized by any damn historian I tried to prove it to. It was almost as if I had made it up. I thought I had, until I found it and saw it for myself. The people there lived a deprived life, looking to strange statues in the drying river for answers. I was drawn to them myself, but not because of their silly superstition. I wanted their story.

A story that may soon become my own.

The Saints of Rapalm is a small-town folk-horror short story about vanity, erasure, and the price of finally being seen.