Size / Zoom
A Handful of Sky

In the darkness of the shop, the unfurled fabric of the sky glowed too brightly to look at directly. She had to put her monocle’s sun lens down whenever she got close to it. When her gloved fingers slid over it she had no doubt that it was the smoothest surface she’d ever touched.

Praying she still had the skill to do it, if indeed anyone alive could do it: gather, and sew, four square yards of sky.
Black, Like Earth

I want to argue with the homeowner, but I know it will get me nowhere. Instead I close my fist around the hard stones he gave me and walk away. ‘Be thankful the ingrates paid at all,’ Aksá would say. Usha always underpaid us. Aksá said I would get used to it, but I have been working two summers now and still I am angry. I have been working two summers now and I am more angry than ever.

“You most cover it up,” Aksá says, startling me. They hand me long strips of torn fabric. “Let no one know.”
Audio Fiction Podcast:
Black, Like Earth
Play

Podcast: Download (Duration: 26:43 — 18.35MB)
Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Android | Google Podcasts | RSS | More

“You most cover it up,” Aksá says, startling me. They hand me long strips of torn fabric. “Let no one know.”
From the Archives:
The Night Bazaar for Women Becoming Reptiles
One, two, three eggs into her mouth, one sharp bite, and the clear, viscous glair ran down her throat.