Welcome to Liminal Shards—fragments of stories from Liminal Verse. We’re posting a few of my (Jan) stories here to see which ones light a spark in people’s minds. We are independent creators, publishing chapters as a podcast and text. It’s designed to be heard. If you like this story, let us know. We will expand upon the stories that gather the most interest.
Text copyright © 2025 Jan Herrington
The alleyways of London spiraled into darkness, brick walls bolstering the city, seeping water in thin rivulets. The streets were deserted, save for the occasional shadow scuttling for cover. My coat was soaked through, fabric heavy against my shoulders. I pushed on anyway, guided by dim lantern glow that barely cut the mist. Somewhere in the downpour, my target thought he was safe.
I moved swiftly through the alleys, dodging anyone who stood in my way, avoiding drawing suspicion. The sound of hurried footsteps splashing puddles in the deserted street caught my attention. There. Only he and I were present. This was my chance.
I ran up to the man and grabbed him by the collar. “This is the last time I’ll ask you so nicely.”
“Unhand me, you ruffian!” he screamed while clawing at my sleeves, trying to get loose.
“If that’s what you want, then I’ll give it to ya.” I released him from my grip.
Reprieve granted, I lunged then, as quickly as I had let go. My fingers wrapped around his throat, putting just enough pressure to not choke him. I was on a mission. I couldn’t fail.
“Give up on your dream, old man,” I hissed. I could sense the pleading in his eyes, could smell the dark panic radiating from his skin.
I couldn’t let him leave this place without a change of heart, so I squeezed tighter. “Stop pursuing that patent.”
I could see the fight leaving him, hope slipping from his mind. Though, just as I had everything under control, I blinked—suddenly, I was elsewhere.
The familiar yet alien feeling of harsh bark against my palms overwhelmed me. I let go of the tree, wondering why I was even holding it in the first place. I was warm and dry, the cold sting of a rainy night no longer aching in my bones.
I looked around. Trees spanned over acres with luscious, juicy fruits ripe enough to eat. White fences lined perfect green grass fields.
I was in an orchard.
It all seemed so nostalgic, like I’d been here a million times in my dreams. The smell of bark hung like a carrot on a string in my mind.
But then, the harsh drill of rain pounding on the rooftops above flooded in. I was back in London.
I flinched. The noise was too much for my head to handle. My shaking hands reached for my temples, the source of pain. Where did this headache come from? And. Wait. Where did my target—that inventor go?
I looked at the empty alley as it succumbed to shadows. Too distracted by that... whatever it was... to realize he slipped from my grasp. Right under my nose, too. Dammit!
What the hell happened? I couldn’t go back to my master now. I hadn’t completed my job. He would surely believe I was a failure—if he hadn’t already.
The image of the sunlit orchard clouded my vision, but I pushed it away. I wouldn’t let the fleeting image of a glorified forest get in my way. I would complete this—whatever it took.
I followed the inventor back to his home, a fancy house on the outskirts of the city. I told myself that I was just going to watch him, then find another opportunity to threaten him later. But I knew, deep inside, what I needed to do.
My gaze wandered to the outline of the knife concealed in my long coat. I slipped it out, contemplating it for a long moment. The moon came out from behind the clouds then, shining on the blade.
Dark circles hollowed out my eyes in the reflection of the knife. I looked half-dead. I supposed it made sense—I didn’t get much sleep.
I looked up and found myself watching through the window of the inventor’s house. Orange lantern light illuminated the dining room. It looked warm in there.
The inventor was sitting at the table, all alone. I thought to myself that nobody would care if this old rich man disappeared. That made my job easier. Then, I noticed the small feast that lay before him. One man couldn’t eat all that by himself.
From the corner of my eye, I watched as a woman with long brown hair walked into the room. She carried a young child in her arms, cradling him. The way she looked into his eyes so lovingly—so gentle—made my stomach tighten. The inventor smiled as soon as she sat down at the large wooden table, the corners of his eyes crinkling. A real smile.
I couldn’t. I just didn’t see how I could do this.
I stood up and started walking to the pub in defeat, wondering when I became so weak. The bottoms of my feet ached in my leather boots. I almost fell against the door from exhaustion when I reached the front of the pub.
As soon as I stepped in, I was assaulted—the sting of cheap whisky, the sound of men laughing. All of it was too loud. It would have been easier to just drown in the black night outside.
I ordered the cheapest pint and drank it without tasting. My mind was too busy holding onto the lingering feeling of being weak. Of being a failure. I couldn’t walk home yet. Master would scold me ceaselessly. What exactly he would say was beyond my knowledge.
I headed upstairs to the inn after throwing a few coins on the bar. I’d been here before and knew how terrible these rooms were. I wished the bed felt a little less stiff compared to the servant quarters I was used to. I sank into a bed that felt more like rock than mattress.
To be held in the arms of another human being—one whom you loved—that must be what humans were made for. At least that’s what I thought about as I tried to fade away into some kind of slumber.
Fumbling with my own thoughts got me nowhere, as usual. Sleep didn’t come easy. It never did, no matter how tired I was. Somehow, I found myself drifting into a fragmented sleep hours after I went to bed.
𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇
I awoke with memories of tree branches twisting through the dark sky like the dirt paths of my hometown. I had been dreaming of an orchard, the same one from my vision the night before. I wondered why it felt so real.
Murmuring to myself, I shook it off, then found my way out of bed and into my coat. I had to make it work this time—I had to find a way to make him happy. I didn’t recall how I got downstairs, just the feeling of chilling air biting into my skin as I stepped out onto the cobbled path outside the pub. It was time.
The inventor’s house looked exactly the same as it had last night. My task hadn’t changed at all. I don’t know why I had hoped it did.
I waited for him to leave the home, managing to stay out of sight easily. Soon after I arrived, he stepped outside the side door and hopped onto a carriage. Hell! How am I supposed to follow him in broad daylight?
I didn’t have a choice, so I followed behind him along the road, trying to keep up with the speed of the carriage. Soon the stone road disappeared, replaced by a muddy path. This was good for me—the mud would slow down the horses.
The carriage still rode out of sight, but I continued my quest along the path. I hoped that he hadn’t made any turns outside my watch, seeing as I didn’t know where he was headed. He wasn’t traveling back to the city—he was going in the opposite direction.
When I finally reached his destination, I looked forward in awe. A forest stood tall in front of me, leaves flowing in the wind. It was December—these trees should have been barren. The inventor’s carriage was stopped just outside the forest, but he wasn’t in sight. I was sure he was in there.
When I stepped past the tree line, the black horses attached to the carriage neighed in discomfort. I ignored them, walking further into what I slowly began to realize wasn’t a normal forest.
All the trees were placed in perfect lines instead of growing naturally. But, more importantly, there were apples decorating each tree like ornaments. I wondered why apples were here out of season.
The overgrown orchard pulled me in deeper regardless. The more I walked, the stranger the air felt—as though the forest itself were alive. The trees were giant, the bark thick. Roots stretched across, bulging out of the ground like brown veins.
I felt in a trance, observing the nature around me until a voice snapped me out of my haze. I thought I had been caught, until I realized it wasn’t speaking to me at all.
I stopped behind a tree, grass crunching under my feet. I observed as the inventor pressed his palm against the bark of a particularly large tree. I strained to listen to the words he whispered.
“—some man threatened—”
“—please help me—”
I filled in the blanks. He must have been talking about me, but who was he talking to? Was he praying?
Another vision struck without warning.
Trees and pressing my hands to their bark just as the inventor had. Memories of touching them and feeling... something. Connection—perhaps power. The image faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me shaking with another sharp pain pounding on the inside of my skull. Memories—that word rang in my head like a bell. Why was I thinking of that word?
I looked back to the spot next to the big tree where he had been standing. It was empty. I cautiously walked over to investigate.
The tree loomed over me, its branches arching over everything caught in its shadow. I reached my rough hand out to touch it, feeling warmth in the bark immediately. Maybe I had only noticed because of how freezing it was outside.
A thought hit me like a mallet. These trees held memories.
The inventor’s and those of his ancestors—maybe even mine. If I cut the branches tied to his memories, he’d forget everything—his invention, and the patent he was trying for.
I pulled out my knife and ran a finger along the backside of the blade. Memories or not, this was just another job. I had to see it through.
But how did I know which branches held his memories of the patent? Looking up, I saw a branch with shoots reaching out. The ones farthest from the trunk were greener.
I didn’t know how or why I knew they held memories. Maybe I was just crazy. But it was like my legs didn’t want me to walk away. I climbed up and slid on my stomach across the sturdy limb.
The shoots were pliable, fresh, newer. These must have been his most recent memories. I started cutting the thinnest ones close to the edge.
The tree felt like it was pulling itself away from me, like it was fighting back. It didn’t want me to stay, but I couldn’t leave.
Just as I finished slicing through the last green twig, everything shifted, knocking me off balance. I dropped, hands reaching for limbs that weren’t there, falling flat on my back, wind knocked out.
I held my palms above me, both empty—bleeding and raw from bark. The knife was point-first in the ground next to my ear, the twigs on my chest.
A voice called out, a deep mocking sing-song. “Well, aren’t you just the perfect gardener?”
That wasn’t the inventor’s voice. I stood, knocking the twigs to the ground, and spun around, knife back in my hand. I didn’t see anyone at first. My eyes darted above. A boy, no older than fourteen, but big for his age, sat perched on one of the higher branches.
He had not been there before, appearing out of nowhere—just like my visions, like my thoughts. His ginger hair glowed angelically in the sunlight, contrasting with a smirk that felt infamous, despite me not recognizing him at all.
“Let me guess why you’re here,” the boy said, swinging his legs lazily. “Stealing memories? Bad habit, you know.”
So this wasn’t a rash act of delusional impulsivity? Who the hell was this kid? What did he know? I would have told him to get lost, but he’s clearly part of this puzzle I got myself wrapped up in.
“Who are you?” I questioned.
He didn’t respond, just widened his smirk as he reached for something in his patchy coat. I instinctively held my knife toward him. He proceeded to pull out—what even was that? A pocket watch?
Before I could react, I froze—muscles locked up, stiff as stone. The world around me sped up, clouds flying across the sky at an impossible rate. My breath caught in my throat.
The boy jumped down, landing lightly on his feet, but he wasn’t moving normally. He was just as unnaturally quick as the clouds, swaying leaves, and birds flying above.
His expression stayed smug as he plucked the twigs from the ground. He slipped the knife from my grip, all in the span of a second. Then he said something entirely unintelligible, voice high-pitched as if a mouse tried to speak.
“∿∿∿∿ ∿∿ ∿∿∿ ∿∿∿∿∿ ∿∿∿∿”
“Whaaaaaaattttt?!” I shouted, words crawling out of my mouth like they weren’t supposed to be there at all. I still couldn’t move.
He said something else I didn’t understand at the speed of the world around me. At that moment, though, something changed.
With the click of the crown on his pocket watch, he slowed to my speed. “Ah, forgot about that, mate. Can you hear me now?”
I stood still in shock—or should I say, still because of his spell.
“Here’s the deal,” the boy said, leaning in close. “You don’t touch things you don’t understand. Let’s hope you’re smart enough to stay away.”
He clicked the crown of his watch again. My knees buckled and I hit the ground hard. I looked up as soon as I recovered, expecting to see the kid’s smug face again. But he was gone, along with the twigs and my knife.
𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇
That night, my brain spilled onto the page.
I woke up one day, rebirth in flames Limbs twisting in the sky, I’m out of my time I’ve seen too much, but I haven’t seen enough Now I’m being bled dry of my luck
This language tastes strange in my mouth Yet, it flavors every word I speak Dissolve my adjustment to this new world Before I forget everything that made myself me
Please, I just want to return to the past Where my worries didn’t even exist yet And I was flying above everything I have yet to flap my wings in this new life
Separated by my ages and the places That no longer feel right I don’t even sound like I’m from there anymore I don’t even know if I remember it at all
My home always warps into something I won’t miss But, I still want to be by his side and feel his kiss Before the ink stain spreads Making everything I love everything I dread
Editor’s Notes
Liminal Shards is a new experiment from us (Jan Herrington and Ed the Editor). Rather that posting an entire serial, we’re going to post individual chapters from a few story ideas percolating in Jan’s head.
This will help Jan get a figure out what to focus on next (in between The Spectral Agent Book 2).
Let us know what you thought of Orchards of Time in the comments.
