Some say that they can rise up on two legs and speak as men, that nimble fingers can chip away at hinges, that their voices can call promises and pleas through keyholes, that they are not quite what they seem.
Pilgrims always cried when they crested the hill and saw the spires of Miruna; they usually fell to their knees right in the middle of traffic. All I saw was the gate that led to the Night Market.
I myself bore witness to the destruction of that most miraculous clockwork, and what remains allows only for positive identification.
The house was an old, old two-storey lump, very square and not graceful, made of red brick that had to peep through thick trellises of ivy creeper and a roof that liked shedding tiles.
A shout louder than the others pierces her armor—disparaging words about her chubby cheeks and oversized thighs. She doesn’t care. Nor is she afraid.
The Odad, my husband’s people, worshipped wolves and stars and this Godless abandoned city, and now my husband was dead.
A baby grew from the apple tree in the backyard last spring. Not quite a baby; a little shrunken fetus that was maybe only two or three months along.
The store keeper’s daughter is bold. She’s the only one that dares to address me. “It’s your fault that it’s always winter.”
A girl drops down from the branches where she’s been perching like some tree frog in black. She starts strolling along behind me, imitating my walk like a bad mime.