Working Title

It started small, as weird little annoyances. I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. I looked under couch cushions, dared to stick a hand under the couch–and tried not to think about the crumbs and goo my fingers were crawling through. I searched in the laundry hamper and went through all the pockets of my jeans, then every jacket and hoodie I could find strewn about my studio apartment. I mean, the place is, like, minuscule. How many spots were there for keys to hide? Think, Emma! THINK! Where did you toss them last night? I was beginning to believe a...

If Wishes Were War Horses

If Wishes Were War Horses

They say there’s a war horse that lives over in Hideaway, New Mexico, whose hooves throw sparks like hellfire and whose breath could move the moon. They say the horse is made of metal from a fallen star, forged and assembled by some automaton god. They say that horse grants wishes, if only you can gentle it long enough to straddle its shoulders. They say a lot of things. It was only June, and Hideaway was already thirsty. The channels down the sides of Tenmile Mesa sat bone-dry and dusty. A few of old Gracie’s cows died of thirst that...

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