A dark fiction anthology by indigenous writers.
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I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe.
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The internet’s a great place for finding out about stuff you’re kind of interested in, but it can’t really help with the things you really want to know. It’s even worse for things you don’t know anything about.
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How many women throughout history were blamed for the weaknesses of men? We made such convenient scapegoats. We were raised to be small, to be silent, to take whatever we were given and no more.
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When you’re an only child, semi-imprisoned, books become more than paper between hard cardboard, more than the alphabet organized into words and printed on a page.
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The city in the south would go the way of limestone, crumbling into the desert until nothing was left but an archaeological layer of dark gray ash and sorrow.
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Fear is generous and does not exclusively live in the hearts of mortals.
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Can you imagine the colonized fighting on behalf of the colonizer to protect the colonizer from being colonized?
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No woman should be made to fear that she was not enough.
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How many generations of women had delayed their greatness only to have time extinguish it completely? How many women had run out of time while the men didn’t know what to do with theirs? And what a mean trick to call such things holy or selfless. How evil to praise women for giving up each and every dream.
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The unsaid thing about funerals is that directly after the communal mourning for someone you love, after everyone is gone and the connected grief dispersed, comes a solitude beyond imagining. A great, gaping nothing where a whole person and life and future used to be. The other side of a funeral is abyss.
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Because broken hearts strip vocabularies down to their raw bones…
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When Kyra makes all the males disappear, she must choose her sister who hates her or the man who loves her.
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No one keeps every book they read, which means the ones we do keep are important. A person’s library is like a fingerprint.
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“Grief can change a person to the point where they become someone they don’t know, or even like very much. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
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And that is why the world has Holy Grails - not because the world needs Holy Grails, but because the world needs heroes.
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Who cared that life was lonely, that jobs were thankless drudgery, that the romance of the proud American state was myth, that the rules of life were laid carefully in neat books and laws written by stern Europeans who stalked the town and state like the grim reaper, with their righteous churches spouting that Jews murdered their precious Jesus Christ?
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Perhaps that is what it is like being with other people. Perhaps even people you like and admire immensely can make you see the World in ways you would rather not.
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I would never be adorable and bubbling over with praise for myself and others. Instead, I was still and cold, and I had to hope that was enough.
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But what do you need dignity for, when the world is ending anyway?
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