Enter to win a signed copy of BCS author Helen Marshall's new short story collection Gifts for the One Who Comes After
The Lord Buddha spoke to me that night. He said to take my hatchet, dust it off, and get to those towns and saloons out there. Those damnable pits of damnation.
My soul sunk beneath the platform planks and into a sturdy ox figurine with wisps of cooled caramel for its horns.
I hesitate, but only for a second. Surely Rose would forgive me.
I could not answer her. I had no memory of doing anything besides preparing the topaz.
I scan the opposite shore of the wide river for any sign of human activity, for the people who sent the boat.
Their bodies returned to the tar pit, the fierce source of his power; and this was the work of my hated lord and master.
From three blocks away, Tom Brown could hear the big bass drum from the Women's Christian Temperance Union band as they thundered down Second Avenue.
With eyes closed, there is a singular heartbeat, a solitary pulse, and when we stretch, there is no we.
It was a frightening, lovely thing; the way the great lens refracted the firelight and sent it out over the water.