The Wistful Dinner
The ink was still wet on the final page when the dream took me, a recurring fever of orange light and the sharp, sulfurous smell of burning limestone. I was holding the border stone, the one that stands at the edge of the northern pasture, and it was not stone at all but a mouth, grinding against the sky, and I woke with the taste of ash in my throat and the year 1642 etched into the margin of...
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