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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.
Every date followed the same pattern. After the dinner and drinks, and the long moonlit walk along the canal, Jules would casually remark that the hangar was not far from here, and would they like to come see? Once outside the heavy metal door, he would pause with his hand above the security scanner,
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.
“How long do I have to have my membership with Juno before he proposes?”
“Well, is he subscribed, too?”
“Lifetime with Venus.”
“Girl.”
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.
Can someone get the doors? Thanks. Please remember we’re on an honor system for chairs—if you’ve eaten today, please leave them for someone who hasn’t. We don’t need another fainting incident. First of all, if you’re looking for a technical look at restoring and reconstructing lost Backwards Man episodes, that’s Greg Bakun’s panel tomorrow morning at 9:30, which I really recommend checking out if you’re not too hungover. This panel is about the recent recovery of clips of “The Goldenrod Conspiracy,” the changes to the story that arise from them, and what it means that every single surviving frame of “The Goldenrod Conspiracy” comes from censorship board clips.
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.
I know what you’re going to say. That I got what I deserved. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Nothing like kicking someone when they’re down, eh? But here I am, dressed in all my mistakes. Huddling inside a house I don’t dare to leave.
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