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Gallam didn’t look at the clothes the family provided until he had already prepared the body. “Prepared” was putting it mildly: the man was covered in wounds—blade wounds? Bite wounds? Gouges, rips, punctures, slices. At first, Gallam wasn’t sure the corpse would actually hold together for burial.
You’ve only ever had one rule: never cross the stream that divides the wastes and the green land. That’s where the robots are, and the robots are our enemies.
The two children regarded Zekelo with solemn eyes. If they were intimidated by the twisting horns jutting from his head or his obsidian claws, they gave no sign of it. “Hello, young ones. Welcome to Zekelo’s Barterhouse & Emporium, the finest shop in all Limbo. Here, we offer phylacteries, nostrums, and rare antiquities from every plane of existence.”
Mother whispered to us about the beings on Earth she regretted creating; the ones whose only merits are their minds, but their minds rot so easily. They are not like you, children; they cannot see so clearly. We asked if the eyesight of humans is poor. Mother only chuckled. Her laughter now carries in the wind, wraps around our bodies—water in the clouds, flames in the lava.
Dear Aunt Harriet, If you’re reading this note it means you survived. That’s wonderful news: I always loved you the most. The notes I sent out with Aunt Anita and the cousins are friendly letters, I promise, us being kin and all, and I surely hope they survive too. But I’m happiest about you.
Talis had a problem. They’d copied the spell incorrectly, in a fury, after seeing photos of their ex with a new date in “their” spot. Adelite was supposed to have experienced a night of terrible dreams leading to a remorseful morning after. Instead, he just hadn’t woken up.
Do it. The last words she spoke before we cinched the green ribbon around her neck, a stark line bisecting her head from her body, a scrap we’d buried to gather magic under the mother tree. We tied the final knot. She took up her sword, a girl become death, the edge of her blade fine enough to cleave three dimensions into one.
We were in the mines when the world was falling apart. I remember, the earth was cracking, and the plants were going limp, and the world looked dark blue, less full of life. Everyone tried to group together—Nan, Chim, even old Robert who mostly kept to himself—but it didn’t do much.
The great writer had lived well past his appointed lifespan, not by years but decades, and now existed less as an ongoing contributor to the literate zeitgeist but as an icon of a past age. He was a super-centenarian, just topping an unbelievable 110 and still appearing at literary conferences.
Mother used to say I am a child of the river. I never understood her. I thought I would be a child of the wind, like her. Like all the children of the wind, my mother could fly. When I was younger, I liked spying on her.
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