B. A. Lamb

Mending Dreams

By B. A. Lamb

I find my father standing on the balcony overlooking our courtyard, his arm drawn back, a trident in hand, aiming at my airship.
“This invention is worse than Icarus’s wings,” Páppa shouts.
“Don’t!” I drop my sewing. Strips of whalebone scatter on the floor. Instead of winding through my side of our U-shaped home,