She coils where the carved letters end, where the topmost branch forgets it was ever wood and remembers only sky.

It’s the radioactivity. It inebriates them. Something about what we call the weak nuclear force, that shy, unglamorous cousin of

A dream is a true thing. Truer than we are. Every night, we appear as unwitting players in the dream’s

You, me, and whoever wrote these words, here may we rest a while. And talk with the dead. Searching minds

Merlin had warned them twice. “Not the gold dust,” he had said, lifting the goblet with the solemnity of a

When we go through the hot-process of reading stories we are changed and the world itself seems to be telling