When you seek access / to the secret records / they will let you in easy even if / your ID is a fuzzy Hubble nebula.
The troll dozes under the gazebo, his gray flesh pale as woodsmoke
I have been told over and over that no one would be interested in what I have to say, that I am the “wrong kind” of minority to count. That my ancestors’ tales of enchantment and wonder—and so, mine—are irrelevant. Yet I know better, and I refuse to listen to anyone except the little girl inside me, the one who needed to see herself and share her magic, to know she belonged and that her brown skin was as beautiful as her Sanskrit name. Who believes that myths and mythic fiction are meant for, and reflect, all of us.
In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Michael Ireland presents Louis Inglis Hall's 'Cold Comfort' read by Emmie Christie. Subscribe to the Strange Horizons podcast: Spotify
