A Feast for Dust

These few words—or just the sound of 'em, Jenkins didn't wonder—were enough to turn outlaw Bart Haugh, a man with more sins on his soul than Judas, sheet-white. He turned towards their speaker, slow as river weed current-caught, perhaps unaware he was even doing so; blanched yet further when he saw who stood there, making all the tiny, charm-crinkled lines on his face stand out like scars.

Jenkins tipped his hat to her prediction, sending up a brief sketch of a prayer himself—perhaps useful, perhaps not, depending on who might be listening—that the next few days wouldn't disprove it.
The Adventure of the Pyramid of Bacconyus

There had better be treasure in there, or he would be very disappointed. Perhaps it was just that he liked to drink stronger wine than was traditional, but he had never been willing to spend the rest of his life in the village, in the shade of the fat tree that had birthed all his cousins, harvesting berries and fruit and fermenting them, and then forgoing all drink and swelling to harden into a sessile giant, content never to move his limbs except with the breeze...

The three cousins walked through a tunnel low enough that their head leaves brushed and bent on the ceiling.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
Walls of Skin, Soft as Paper

Podcast: Download (Duration: 11:58 — 8.22MB)

Tomai took his wife’s fragile hand in his own. He felt like if he held it even as if it were a child’s, the bones would snap like pine dowels.
From the Archives:
I'd had a name, a long time ago. But no one but me remembered it.