It was a simple task, delivering a basket of apples to the Spanish militia. The one duty a woman could perform in Zaragoza. But hidden in her basket, Agustina transported divine Aragon apples, sourced from the local orchard believed to be blessed by saints, that offered
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Emirate of Transjordan
November 1941
The Underground Cathedral was cool and damp, a relief after the long drive through the desert. Julien Arnault wiped sweat from his brown curls with a dirty sleeve. He held a flickering torch in his left hand
Gemma Green boarded her Moving Across Time machine and set the date to June 1, 1893. “Ready, MAT?” she asked, giving the dashboard of her circular vehicle a pat.
A robotic voice responded, “Ready. When. You Are.”
Gemma sat back in the captain’s chair and
“Take me to Mykonos,” the drunk young man said to no one as I walked by. He was slouched in a chair outside a taverna, the exterior of which was drowning in bougainvillea. It was very early to be that drunk—but who was I
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I braced myself as the oversized Jeep conquered a particularly stubborn pothole. With eight of us crammed into three rows and no roof or doors on the vehicle, I worried I’d be jostled over the side.
My handkerchief slipped off my face,
Mateo glanced at his lock screen and huffed. They should have left for the concert fifteen minutes ago. Where was Dylan?
He dialed his friend’s number yet again, but it went to voicemail for the fourth time.
Beep!
“Dylan, come on, man!
Lenny couldn’t help being the wisest man on Earth. Just as the rest of humanity couldn’t help being deeply and tragically ignorant.
He tapped his fingers against his carefully constructed booth as he sat by the vacant road outside his house.
You’d think the walking public
“Ah, I did say I would match you drink for drink, didn’t I?” Nathaniel Markson sways as he pulls another whiskey off a passing server’s tray. His flushed cheeks are evidence that he’s had far more drinks beyond the three with you.
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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
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