Max Fomitchev-Zamilov | Poetry and Prose

The sun shone brightly in the sky. Its heavy rays pummeled dried earth like pounding stones, chiseling away at the red rocks of the desert…

In this life, Sir Barrow was a dragon. He was lying in a dark, damp den, sleeping. His enormous body was rising and falling as…

Sir Lancelot was old. His horse, a white mare, was every bit as gray and old as he himself looked. His armor, well made, shiny,…