Marian H. Rowe

Any moment now, I will fall asleep. The ground intrudes onward with parched leaves and muggy soil. Bits of it bleed into my ankles as I tread sorely and tediously downhill in the tropical arboretum. It is as big as a forest. There is no one in earshot. The sky, a little hazy, cannot bleach […]

The hills of Phyrwold are empty places. They are always empty, of life wild or domesticated to subservience, or of death pervasive in decaying roots and bleeding rivers – emptiness instead holds her pale, pliant hands around the sky, a terrarium of silent fog and silenter rain to paint the trees in silver…