Author: translunartravelerslounge

Every year the mudflats get bigger. I smell Smith and Tangier Islands in the silt, lands slowly pulled apart to our south like confetti in a palm—the currents blow. The elders like the mudflat. It helps them ease their way out of the water when the sun rises, as the bones in their tails writhe and pop and snap back into the shape of legs. I don’t need a mudflat. I drag myself up into the reeds, hands turned inward like club feet. My bones are young. It doesn’t take long to be human again.

Filomena woke to the sound of weeping. Not unusual. The Chapel of Perpetual Decomposition had excellent acoustics, and the mushrooms were always weeping about something: climate change, unrequited fungal love, the ethics of yogurt. But this was not a mushroom cry. It was something wetter.

So now I’m in a cold, dark cellar. I can sense the weight of the stone above me, but I can’t see anything. Up there I know there are undergraduates, professors, all noise and footsteps, but none of that makes it through the thick sandstone. The air is as dry and cold as any midwinter frost, and dark as an Ohio night.

After surviving yet another day of feigning pleasantness for clients and coworkers, the small, pink, pearlescent dragon sitting on Lily’s doorstep felt like one more damn problem.

I'm not sure exactly how long it’s been April 11th. We had a guy in charge of keeping track until we realised he was just making it up whenever someone asked. It’s been April 11th for a very long time.

Being a demigod is very taxing for the psyche. You end up seeing things that aren’t there, killing things that aren’t there. Shh, it’s okay; it wasn’t your fault.

I'm riding through space on my bike (as one does) when I see this enormous sunflower.

The grassfire crept towards the granary. This one was worse than most; it got so big that the whole village together could do nothing but watch. Everyone’s grain, a whole year’s worth—for eating and for selling both—was about to go up in flames. 

When the northwestern wind blows through the island, the shutters of the grand houses on Archbishop Street rattle like the tips of snake tails. Ships moored in the harbor moan at their anchors. The ancient capital city perched on top of the weathered limestone cliffs slumbers in a deep, dreamless sleep. There’s no light, save for the frantic beacon of the lighthouse, calling from the depths of the sea sailors of lost fishing boats.

It’s only after Cloud’s funeral that we realise none of us can remember why we followed her in the first place. No-one, that is, except for Robbie. He stowed away, he claims, and kept a clear head. The rest of us? A drink, maybe two; compelling blue eyes; and the next thing we knew, we were on the ship. Contract signed. Memories hazy. Cloud renamed us, gave us each a job, and that was it. We were crew.