“A pinch of mint, a sprinkle of red clover. Three drops of deep golden honey, and the sun-kissed petals of a yellow daisy. The peel of an orange, an azure feather of a bluebird, and…” I gave the cauldron contents a slow stir.
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We plodded through the streets, human water droplets forming tributaries that flowed toward the Auditorium. Talking was forbidden now that Corporations owned words. It was too late to mourn the legal battles over copyrights won by slick lawyers. The world order had changed, and there was
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The three suspects fidgeted in their line while Crowe wrote in his notepad. He knew that writing usually made his suspects nervous, and while Crowe didn’t like that fact exactly, it couldn’t be helped. And sometimes he did get a bit of pleasure from
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The crone’s home lies deep within the forest, so covered in moss and vines that I almost miss it. The old woman sits on a stool by her front door, hunched over a massive tome, running her fingers across lines of text.
I adjust
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“How do we shut it off?” I shout over the dissonant symphony created by Dr. Prismatic’s haywire machine. Thankfully, at the entrance of the hastily abandoned carnival, we’re just beyond the whirlwind’s reach.
“It was only supposed to affect the carnival—I never
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