P H Lee lives on top of an old walnut tree, past a thicket of roses, down a dead end street at the edge of town. Their work has appeared in many venues including Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Uncanny. From time to time, they microwave and eat a frozen burrito at two in the morning, for no reason other than that they want to.
Her father’s great dynasty, sacred to Amun and guided by the hand of the gods, stood shakily on those scrawny legs.
This body is tired and hungry. But the beating of a strange heart keeps me awake.
P H Lee