fantasy dust folk (3) The cathedral is an anvil dropped from a great height on the shoulders of the city. Houses and market stalls crowd away from it and heavy blackout blankets blind its openings. Many people
sf captain orpicea and the visitor When Orpicea had been in the mining business, the jargon for gas-harvesters like these was ‘canaries’, drowning as they did in their mother jovian’s atmosphere, and the general feeling was that they
sf white dwarf resonant We would drill deep to reach the marrow. Feldt helped me lay down the battery and align the bore. Seseq directed us, the coral's deep structures clear to her through some mechanism of
sf underpass They found her body in the wrong country’s river. The officers grimaced at the stench as they fished her out, eelgrass wrapped around her like the water wanted to keep her.The
sf galactic coral bloomed We set down upon the coral where it was brightest. Only Seseq did not turn away as the bay doors yawned open. Even through my suit's filtered visor the poison light leaked through.
fantasy dust folk (2) Sound had died in that time, Marlowe explained, and the desert folk had dug deep. The nomads rewrote their traditions or they disappeared. Things had made roost in the desert. You heard them
fantasy lunatic moon Where the moon's threads touched the forest canopy the leaves were manic although the air was still. Tapic's shoulder scraped on the shuddering branches as she climbed. A long keen dagger swung at
short fiction where the snow dies (1.5/2) Above there was only the unmoving clouds, preserved mid-maelstrom. She was close enough now to see the eye of that frozen storm, which the corpse of the elder tree strained to reach with
short fiction where the snow dies (1/2) Some mad wizard wanders, they said, up in the old north, in the creaking airless wastes where the owls went. A hunched, arthritic witch (a barkeep drawled), a smirking magician prince (said the
fantasy dust folk The desert cities shut their gates when the red clouds rolled in over the dunes. Mountainous billows of sand scaled their walls, used their streets as veins, and buckled the roofs of the
short fiction in transition There's the slippage, that gets some folks off. You get this real, uh, disassociative sensation. When the boat splits. In transition. 'It's the grey stuff,' Pam's voice crackled. This was years back.