The Harpist of Souls
by F Hampton Carmine
Maxwell Borodin stumbled, protecting his bottle of rotgut. He needed the rest because he was still conscious and until he slept, the voices would not stop. They wanted him to remember his past. He tripped, splashing booze, eyes burning, he yelled at the loss, not the pain, spewing a mist of spittle and booze. Memories began. He begged, but the memories kept coming and his bottle was already empty.