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On the cold dreary night, we were set to leave the water’s depth for good, do you remember what you asked me? Well, if you have forgotten, I haven’t. An avalanche of fright shrouded my insides, blocking any question knocking at the lid of my heart.
The sweet air of the temple district is what makes the bread taste so good, Mama says. The shafts of sunbeams that come through broken stained glass pick up a honeyed fragrance on their way down and warm our rising dough. The breeze that wheezes through chinks in crumbling stone walls stirs up ghosts of ancient incense and perfumes our airy loaves.
When they flash his sign at the top of the Space Needle, he shoots out from the center of Lake Union and flies high into the sky. A mushroom wave erupts from where he surfaces and expands radially. Children watching from the shore jump in place and scream and point at him. The shy ones clap.
I was sorry even before I got caught. The first inkling that we were not going to get away with it came when we were messing with the AI art generator app. You know, the kind where you put some words in and out comes a trippy image. I typed in: Gothic lemon pie running away from the sun. I was expecting something yellow with an errant eyeball.
Warning! This review contains spoilers. To answer the question on everybody’s mind: No, controversial filmmaker Manuela Riviera’s new documentary The Reunion of the Survivors of Sigrún 7 doesn’t reveal what happened during the forty-five days the spaceship went missing on its way to Mars or how mission commander Ruben Corto died.
When I was five years old, my mother left for Europa as part of the expedition that discovered the Europan Pseudocephalopods, which have a superficial resemblance to squid. My mother wanted to call them Icypods but was overruled.
A small god once lived far out among the hidden objects that plied the stardust between galaxies. They were not a handsome god, nor an ugly god; not an intelligent god, nor an ignorant god.
The smaller creatures of the universe have called me many names: She Who Darkens the Sky, Star-Blotter, The One That Unstitches Constellations. None of them knew how right they were. They named me for my shadow.
Welcome to my seminar, Self-Care Secrets for Immortals! Few foxes make it to over nine hundred years old in this day and age, but you’ll be one of them with four of my time-tested, battle-honed secrets.
After the world ended, Marie boarded the last functional vessel at the port and set out from Vancouver, heading across the strait toward the cloud-shrouded spine of Vancouver Island and the open ocean beyond.
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