Waru Waru
Abuelita has been feeding me her memories. Yesterday, it was the time she trudged up the mountain carrying a basketful of offerings for Pachamama (flowers, incense, a llama sculpted out of animal fat and adorned with gold leaf) in hopes the Earth Mother would alleviate the drought ruining the harvest. Today, it’s the time she visited Tío Roberto...
Ash-Shūrā; or, A Book, a Bowl, a Bag of Coins
There once lived a boy who paid for a fortune. Nassim wore carob hair and eyes severe like cardamom. He spent his days scouring the souk for unique trinkets he liked to collect or counting the uneven stones of Jerusalem’s cobbled streets as he passed Al-Aqsa Mosque or picking up groceries for his grandmother. He knew it was best to avoid attenti...
The Sharing of Some Familiar Song
The creatures who shared your art with us had to explain many things to make it minimally comprehensible. This by itself made sense. You are who and what you are, and we are who and what we are, and the physical differences between us are profound. We belong to different orders, and this means that our minds are also different, our philosophies ...
A Candle for Her Tireless Dead
By Louis Inglis Hall in Issue #459 of Beneath Ceaseless Skies Online Magazine Twelve years, imagining their empire in my mind. Confronting its demons and devising my own antidotes. Despairing of my evidence: the soft and mouldering leaves of manuscripts, the songs of heretics before a gallows dawn. Fashioning theodicies, weaving argument and cou...
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