If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t take him for part-ghost—but you’d know he wanted to be somewhere else.
If the fucking Scar exists, whispered the Brucolac, still without turning, and if they get us there and by some gods-fucked miracle we survive, then they’ll still destroy us. We are not an expeditiona...
I didn’t tell the story to ask for help because I knew there was no help.
I always stayed. I can’t say I chose to stay as I felt quite without traction, without capacity to find myself or anything.
How could one not think of the stories we all grew up on, that surely the Ul Qomans grew up on too? Ul Qoman man and Besź maid, meeting in the middle of Copula Hall, returning to their homes to realis...
Hello slash query is all well? parenthesis enquiry after suitability of timing slash insinuations of warmness sixty percent insinuations of belief that interlocutor has topic to be discussed forty per...
He didn’t know what if anything it was his mother got from his father’s company.
Collingswood frowned at the clouds, like she did not like what they wrote.
A haggard man used one of the huts as a home. He lay on a sagging mattress, his head on his pack, surrounded by rubbish - paper, porcelain shards, food remains and unidentifiable debris. His hand was...
Almanacs, or what was left of them when those pages making incorrect predictions and offering unhelpful advice had been torn out.
Those created creations were treated like tools that talked, their sentience an annoying product of magic noise, by those little mortal demiurges who thought dominion a natural by-product of expertise...
The fucking angels of memory were out. They had come out of their museums, out of their castles. They'd gone to war against whatever this incoming to-come was. The very facts of retrospection and fate...
Tell , Bren said. I thought you'd despaired.I did, too.What then? Tell me.I told him. Revelation was spoiled for him, but I can retain it here, for you.
My father passed me. He looked briefly at me as you might at a stump or a broken machine or anything that’s specific only in that it’s in your way, to walk around it as my father did me.
In Paris you had to be ready to fight art and the Hellish—not to mention Nazis—so they labored under weapons for all eventualities.
Fights are much taxonomised. They have been subject over centuries to a complex, exhaustive categoric imperative. Humans like nothing more than to pigeonhole the events & phenomena that punctuate thei...
If she were studying Orciny, and there might be excellent reasons to do so, she'd be doing her doctorate in Folklore or Anthropology or maybe Comp Lit. Granted, the edges of disciplines are getting va...
I think there's something quite interesting about the almost tragic quality of a lot of overwrought prose, because it has a much more self-conscious awareness of its own failure to touch the real.
The one that goes: I’d like to die peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.
The costumes raised memories of the Night of the Kinken Shards, when the New Quill Party had overrun the khepri ghetto in a storm of murder, shattering spit-sculptures in the Plaza of Statues, stampin...