“Hello!” I flounced over to another group of people before anyone from the first could respond. “Hello!” Seeing their confused expressions, I chuckled and skipped down the sidewalk.
When I heard a woman speaking Spanish into her cell phone, I couldn’t help but exclaim “¡Hola! ¡Soy Leah!” She glared at me, but I was too giddy to care. I had a bet to win.
“Ladies and gentlemen, step right up!”
Darcy O’Connor winces as a loud female voice bursts out of the AI interface speaker. Her robotics lab used to be such a peaceful place.
“Only one ticket to learn your future!”
This is the AI’s way of requesting paper. Darcy keeps turning off Carnival Mode, but it always reverts.
Logbook Entry. October Fourteenth, in the humble year 2568.
Just last month, I gazed upon the old weapons and hovercrafts from the Great War. And I finished reading the faded copy of The Art of War two weeks ago. Never could I have imagined it was preparing me for my fast-approaching conscription.
Read it now
The night air smells like cinnamon and fryer oil from the cart vendors down below. Swing jazz floats on the breeze from the club three shops down. I tap my fingers moodily on the rusty edge of the fire escape. It’s Independence Day, but I don’t feel much like celebrating.
Tomorrow, my brother leaves for war.
6th June, 1944
Twelve miles from shore, we climb into the landing craft.
“Remember,” the coxswain warns, looking at each of us as we set out. “Save no one. We need manpower on the beach.”
No one responds. What could we say? None of us wanted to face the possibility of leaving our friends behind.
Operation Dynamo. More than 338,000 British and other Allied troops waited on the beaches of France. Surrounded by the Germans, the only way out was on the sea that trapped them.
But the beaches were too shallow for destroyers to reach. So, the British Admiralty sent out the call for small vessels to ferry the men to safety.
Warmth does not come to the peaks as quickly as it does the valley. For though the mountains here remain frozen in winter’s grasp, the basin below my tomb has thawed, and in the valley, flowers bloom. From the summit I watch as thick snow melts and flows into rising streams that feed the invaders’ crops and cattle and greed.
Read it now
Every spring, the past called Cheroth back to a land that did not want her, compelling her against reason or need. She swept low over the tree line and into full view of the village, beating her wings in the slow rhythm of one trying to suppress hope. A woman caught her shadow and looked up.
Read it now
There are echoes in the valley, and they speak my name.
Emereth. Emereth.
Desperate and muffled like a man with his face in a pillow, using his last breath—for me. It is carried on a low, whistling wind that aches through tall cliffs on either side of this place. It rustles through wildflowers, collecting pollen and doubts.
Let me preface by saying I didn’t mean to get cursed into a dragon.
It just sort of happened. When your father wages a surprise attack against a rival enchantress queen, curses are bound to occur.
All in all, I thought my father got off easily. Invade a neighboring country, get a cursed son.
Hendria looked around the corner, waiting for the guards to pass around the temple wall. She took a breath, then counted to ten. She’d executed everything perfectly up to this moment; now all those months of meticulous planning seemed to be paying off. She’d memorized every rotation and path of the guards.
Read it now
Morning’s pale light radiates through the cracks in the storehouse where I sleep, and I lean into the comforting warmth. The air is silent and still. Heavy with expectation. My stomach pinches in hunger and I tuck my legs to my chin, whimpering. Wait for the pain to pass.
Pain. One.
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