You go down empty-handed or the telling is a lie. That was the first thing Weha put in me, before the breath work, before the shelves, before she ever let me past the first drop. A teller carries nothing up. Not one shell, not one fish, not the smallest bright thing you fall in love … Continue reading The Clean Small Song
Tag: short story
The Empty Pan
The assay house at Marsk keeps no fire. Heat swells the brass, and a swelled beam reads long, so the arms of the great scale hang over a slate floor cold enough to ache the teeth of anyone who works there past the third bell. I was sixteen the winter I was to be sworn, … Continue reading The Empty Pan
