I clung to the yardarm as wind whipped across the deck of Brume de Mer, spraying ocean mist into the captain’s face.
“With a stiff wind and a swift current, we’ll be in the West Indies in no time, lads. Where rum and our profits await!”
Martha scanned the pews as she entered the sanctuary, one hand slipping almost unconsciously into her bag. Her fingers brushed the spines of two books, one as thick as her fist and one as thin as a pencil. The thick one was, of course, her Bible.
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They came back the year the soil softened.
Not the birds. Not the stray cats. Not even the neighbors who had long since decided the lot was cursed.
The ants.
At first, it was a line—thin as a thought—threading
There was no escape from Interhaven’s warship blockade. For forty-eight hours, we had pored over the map, looking for any possible escape route, and still we found nothing.
“We can’t leave with all our cargo intact,” I stated, flipping my long brown
The market was usually the loudest place in Tabgha, full of fishmongers waving their latest catches, servants haggling over the price of oxen for their masters, and preachers on street corners trumpeting the end of all things. Yosef didn’t mind. The louder and more
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Sara centers the crosshairs on the blonde’s skull. The unsuspecting woman wearing a blue sundress drinks from a teacup, her face shadowed by the café table’s umbrella.
A hundred yards away, hunkered atop the roof of an abandoned warehouse, Sara finesses the scope’s elevation and windage with a smooth efficiency earned by months of practice. Below, the city produces an occasional pedestrian and passing vehicle while the empty boulevard remains trapped in the simmering quiet before the morning rush. Within the next five minutes, a train will roar past on a bridge overlooking the café, masking the rifle’s echoing boom. Sara will disassemble her weapon and flee the scene before the train’s ambiance decays across the unsuspecting neighborhood.
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A man and woman bought a plot of land and built a cottage and greenhouse. The rest of their earth they cultivated to full, flamboyant, leafy life, pendent with edible gems. Some tomatoes ballooned to be nearly as large as watermelons. Others reminded one
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The numbers appeared after Tara’s tenth birthday. Always red. Never another color. Bright as warning lights. They were hovering above her father’s head while he buttered toast.
32
They flashed like a reflection off glass, wavering each time he leaned toward the raspberry jam. She
“Mason, what do you think?” Aunt Peggy asks, beaming.
It’s terrible.
Of course, I don’t say that out loud. Aunt Peggy would be inconsolable if I do. So I swallow and hope my face doesn’t express my shock. “Aunt, you shouldn’t have.”
She giggles
Book club invitation. Take one if you dare.
Lucy withdrew a folded slip of red paper from the acrylic display. How mysterious.
Hearing shuffling from behind the check-out desk, she cleared her throat. “Excuse me, I’d like to renew my library—”
Professor Kaitlyn Valemon turned off the projector and faced her class. “So, if you’re ever in Ireland, make sure to look out for the fairy rings.”
“Have you been?” asked a student.
Kaitlyn’s heart panged. She’d always wanted to go to Ireland to do first-hand research of their myths and fairy tales.
Since their arrival in Engine 26, Girard Avenue Northeast had descended into chaos. Beyond the hulking pumper and unraveling hoses, onlookers had gathered at the perimeter established by the DCFD to watch the Brentwood colonial burn. Justine Buchowski was rounding out her initial site survey,
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