Story no 46. I spent two months (May and June) working on a farm, which included three charming and very goatish goats. They found all the holes in the fences and made some new ones, all in pursuit of snacks.
You can purchase a print of this story’s illustration on my Society6 page.
If you’d like to support this project, I have a Patreon! $1/month gets you art process posts; $3/month gets you extra stories and illustrations.
(You’ve got them all figured out, then,) Khazar said. (Every woman and child has been tagged to a homestead.)
Kazed considered, and Khazar watched a cascade of thoughts flicker across the top of his mind. Clearly not all the displaced had been assigned to new accommodations.
(There’s a problem,) Kazed finally allowed.
Khazar bared his teeth, and Kazed’s already-thin mind voice faltered.
(What sort of problem would that be?)
(There’s a woman—with—)
By accident or providence, a heart-stuttering scream rent the air at that moment.
Both Khazar and Kazed dropped to all fours and dashed toward the noise.
Hey! I’ve been moving around a lot in the past few weeks — I flew back from the UK on May 2nd, then spent a week with a friend in Boston, then came out to central Massachusetts to work on a farm for a while. The end result being a drop-off in posts and work in general.
However! The podcast continues! This week’s story is “Censorship.” You can listen to it on libsyn or iTunes, or you can read the original story here.
Story no. 19.
“There you are, my lovely,” Zirach said, tugging the last strap tight. “How does that feel?”
Fia looked down at the brass limb. The sorcerer had added three sections to increase the length so it matched her other arm. The hand had been made entirely anew from steel cogs and copper plating. She wiggled the fingers. Wires wrapped her stump, one continuing up the back of her skull under her hair. The wires somehow carried her thoughts down into the metal arm so it moved almost – not quite – as easily under her direction as her own flesh did.
Story no. 18.
My husband spends most of his evenings working on the literary magazine for which he is assistant editor.
Leina, one of my friends, asked him about it once: “Doesn’t it bother you – when you care so much about literature – to work as a censor?”
He shrugged. We were eating dinner, and he forked another caramelized root vegetable (he had done the shopping, and I didn’t recognize the plant) into his mouth. “I think of it more like quality control.”
“Really?” Leina sounded like she was being strangled.
“Really.” Hassur took another bite and smiled thinly at her.