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18 Mar 2024
Day in and day out, the rough waters of the Pacific slam themselves against the protrusion of sandstone the locals refer to as Morro Rock. White streaks of bird shit bleed down the rock, a testament to the rare birds of prey that nest in its pocked face overlooking the bay.
11 Mar 2024
When Granny came by Li’s workshop to deliver the news of Huyuan’s death, the choice in front of Li was hardly a choice at all, and even Granny knew it.
4 Mar 2024
Sometimes among the fish and crabs, we trawl squid and octopus, or little sharks, all added to the pots. Sometimes it’s a fish person, a thing we cut free and do not talk of, pretend we never saw. Today, it is part of a god.
19 Feb 2024
That was Father—a storm in a drought, a comet in the night. Acting first, thinking later, carried on not by foresight, but on luck’s slippery feet. And so we were not as surprised as we should have been when, one warm night in our tenth year on the mountain, Father showed us the flying machine.
12 Feb 2024
The alert comes screaming in on Jana’s implant, bright light lancing through the fog of REM sleep: [New glyph. Intersection of 148th and Cliffton.]
5 Feb 2024
You are a young god. You are sweet volcanic soil and the rumbling voice of the stone and banners that snap in the wind. You are the best and deepest desires of your people. You are, in the body that is only somewise yourself, pleasing to mortal eyes, easier to petition than the mountain, and as they forget the form that they speak to is not precisely yourself, you forget a little, too.
15 Jan 2024
The last person in the world lay asleep at the top of the tower. She waited not in a bed of silk and roses for the kiss of a destined lover, but huddled at the foot of a steel door in the hopes that she wouldn’t have to be the last person for more than a few hours, that if she stayed right where she was, her family would come to their senses and return to her. Her name was Lena. She was nine years old.
8 Jan 2024
Once there lived a princess who was a girl, a corpse, a slippery amphibial nymph. She was tucked within several lives, each life pleating and creasing into silken layers of woe. But for our purposes, we will restrain ourselves to one of those lives. Maybe even two. Her name was Marakatam, but it was not the name she was born with. It was a name she was bequeathed, and this was how it happened.
1 Jan 2024
When I leave home at seventeen, my mother tells me three things. Not to care too much. To keep my gift a secret. And to get used to being alone.
18 Dec 2023
The glue habit started a week after you saw the woman. It was born of simple childish equivalence, but what can you do about it now? Your brother, Benjamin, once told you that soap cleanses impurities. He had seen someone’s mother stuff a bar of Dove soap into their open mouth because they’d said naughty words—“curse words,” Benjamin called them.
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